We made plans to go out again that Friday night, the day after Christmas. He had tickets to a sporting event and wanted to take me. He knew that after this week, Friday would generally be my only free night – so he said Friday nights were for me. It made my heart flutter a little bit at the thought.
With the Christmas illness that felled my parents (post to follow tomorrow on that debacle), they weren’t able to take my son that Friday night. So I had to call Tony and tell him I couldn’t go out. I said I understood if he still wanted to go to the game, but if he was keen, he was welcome to come to my place after my son went to sleep.
Good man, he chose the latter. There was more talk, more kissing, more flirting, more sweetness, more moments of such heated passion. The sex that night was better than previous and I brought him to a lovely orgasm, although it took shorter than I would like (although to be fair, I prefer hours). He mentioned he was much better in the morning. We set my alarm for 6am so he could leave before my son woke up.
When he sat up on the side of my bed, I noticed that he was sporting one of my favourite things – morning wood. I couldn’t let it go… so I leaned over and started appreciating it with my hand.
I pushed him back on the bed and mounted him. Ahhhh. It was delicious and the perfect end to Date #3.
That day I left with my son for two nights at a friends country property. Tony and I exchanged a few text messages on my way up. I sent him a goodnight text…and I received nothing back.
Nothing. But it was that first little hurt.
It’s just little: not getting a response to a goodnight text sent at midnight until 36 hours later.
It’s not like he doesn’t have a phone. It’s not like he didn’t see the text. But he didn’t bother to respond. Even with a “good morning”, the most simple and ultimately meaningless of text messages.
That first little hurt.
The sudden interruption of those delighted and excited feelings, even though I try so hard to temper them and tell myself I have felt this before, and it has been destroyed every. single. time.
The evaluation of expectations kicks in. Wondering why communication doesn’t occur so seamlessly. Wondering if there is a backing away occurring, a shrinking away from that intensity of those first three dates in short succession.
Wondering if there were lies, or things meant in the moment then reconsidered. Wondering if perhaps, this being a first date, a new experience, that more experience is needed. But how does one say that? One doesn’t.
And just like that, with that first little hurt, comes the first brick of the wall.
With each doubt that creeps in, each suspicion that this is now all too much for him to bear, that perhaps there is someone else, or just simply – not me – another brick is added.
It’s self-protection, you see. I’m really good at it. Lowering my expectations means they can’t be shattered. Expecting to be screwed over means I can tell myself I’m not destroyed when it happens, as it inevitably does.
But I’m not really fooling anyone.
The walls get built and I rationalise behaviours and lower expectations but at the end of the day, I rail against letting those walls shut me down. The dreamer in me, that hopeless romantic that fell in love with my ex-husband on the third date is still there. She allows herself to be optimistic.
But the cynic is there too. The one who knows if a man is interested, he will communicate. That going silent means a lack of consideration, of interest. And that perhaps it’s all just bullshit and the man on the other side is totally fucking clueless to the debate he has spawned.
I still know I made the right decision to not be married, but I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.