Sunday Date

I met Harry for coffee at a café near Eastern Market. He was 37 years old and wore a sweater. His face had that puffiness that we all acquire with age, and the loss of a jawline that accompanies it, and he styled his hair the same way he had styled it since grade school, with gel on the cowlick in the front. 

This was my second blind date in two days. The idea is to get out and meet people.

I’ve only been in love with one man. One man who made my heart race when he was near. Who made my soul sing when I was with him. One man I ached to be with.  But I’ve cared for a few men, and I’ve even loved a few. And there are still others for whom our natural affinities might have created a good bond for a couple of decades (had they been available).  So why not seek out people, spend time with them, and see if there is something to respect and enjoy?

I remind myself that I did not love Hans immediately. That trait developed over time. So I give these men some time.

Harry bought me a cappucinno. He was nervous. I was not. Nervousness comes from having an investment and having hope. Is this the one?  Could this be something important?
My standard is different: I’m wondering if this is better than sitting on my couch in my pajamas (the alternate activity for the morning). Already he’s winning that battle. It’s a good idea to set the bar really low. I buy him his second coffee and subject him to a recounting of my business development.

I ask him questions. Where was he from? What had his career looked like until that point? What did he do for fun? Where had he been in the world? What was his family like?

He’s nice, and he's had experiences. He’s traveled the world – even spent time in Eastern Europe and  has some nice stories to tell. We go to the market, wander about. We eat lunch. We walk to the car. He asks if he can see me again. He drops me off at the metro stop. He's nice.

I feel sad and empty. A melancholy settles over me that I cannot shake. My conscious mind did not allow the comparison between what was in front of me and what I loved. Instead, I was trying to make the comparison with this spending-of-the-morning, and a day on the couch. But I cannot stop the subconscious from going to that place where I was loved passionately and where I loved desperately.

I walk to the National Gallery of art. But the paintings are too prescient. They are of the same variant of reality that I saw when I was with Sjors. When I was with him, it was like looking at the sun and I knew it was the sun – and I was ashamed of myself for doubting that the sun existed.

I can’t bear to look at Van Gogh. Vermeer. Rembrandt. It's like putting my hand on the stove.