In the Moment
Updated: Sep 16, 2020
“The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest. Only a person who is congenitally self-centered has the effrontery and the stamina to write essays” EB White
I met you on Wednesday. With a loose emphasis on the word, met. More accurately, we matched on Wednesday.
Match, a term I’ve grown to loathe, yet, an essential part of the lexicon in the world we met. A superficial substitute for the everyday encounters associated with making a strangers acquaintance for the first time. But, especially in these socially distant days, despite my disdain, a match would have to do. For the moment, there is no meeting in the wild.
We messaged back and forth, as the long summer day blended into night. Our small talk became banter, as we answered each other's questions.
You had a way, there was something unique, borderline peculiar about you. Your aura intrigued me, understanding you preoccupied me, like the pieces of a puzzle.
My writing was your source of intrigue, it had you digging for details. But sensing your fascination with my field, I was hardly about to divulge enough depth to satiate your interest. I feel asleep, intentionally leaving you wanting just a little more.
I didn’t want to be the only one.
My surreptitiousness aside, you seemed just my type. An asian beauty, studying psychology at a nearby university. We connected, saw the world similarly, what is a writer if not a pseudo-psychologist?
But, what attracted me most, in all our small talk you focused on the now, seemed to live for the moment. Putting me at ease, the present is my comfort zone, my escape from a tangled trail of debris I have tended to leave in my wake.
Your presence, providing me an opportunity to live in the moment.
I had to meet you. I wanted to find out what our moment could have in store.
Friday afternoon, I startled the end of a lounge chair as my daughters splashed in the shallows of the pool. My presence split between a game of catch with them, texting with you and exchanging eye contact with the green eyed goddess doubling as the nearest lifeguard. I had no plans that evening, the girls were set to spend the night at my parent’s house. A regular ritual.
But, between the gaze of the lifeguard and the flirtatious banter with you, I began to wish I wasn’t spending the evening alone.
Aroused by the unknown, I succumb to the moment and began to type:
Me: How do you feel about spontaneity?
You: I am a big fan.
Me: Good, what are you doing tonight? I think we should meet for drinks.
You: I am down.
Me: Pick a spot, convenient for you. Preferably outside…. Covid and all
You: We should talk about that…. Have you been cautious or tested? I haven’t really been going out much.
Me: I’ve not been tested, but very cautious.
You: Well, if you have been cautious, why don’t we just avoid the crowds and I will come to your place, we can have a drink and chill
Finally, I thought to myself, this nuisance known as social distancing was starting to come in handy.
I smiled at my phone, and then, for some reason, again up at the green eyed lifeguard. For the moment, life was good.
A few short hours later you rang my doorbell.
You were stunning, as you carried yourself through my house into the kitchen with an ease and grace uncommon for a woman your age. Your short jean shorts revealed the tone legs which were the clear beneficiary of your cycling habit I’d soon learn all about. Tight fitting and high waisted the shorts made it impossible to not gaze as you walked.
A fact, which I knew, you knew.
I opened the fridge and took out two Truly’s for us, joining you at the bar. We sat close, legs nearly touching. We didn’t talk much, but not in an awkward way. We seemed to share an implicit understanding, we related in reality, we both knew why you were here.
The little conversation we did have centered on your mode of egress for the evening. Earlier, I’d offered to order you an Uber. You’d been appreciative but told me your roommate could drive you. But on arrival, perched at my door, I saw your high end road bike, your prized possession.
You’d biked the 8 miles from your campus to my house in the fading light of the late summer night.
A fact, for some reason, I found incredibly fucking hot. Eccentric, in an exotic way, and exotic in the sexiest of ways. You were so unique, so unafraid, so self assured, a confidence which felt contagious.
At your suggestion, we left my bar and headed over to the couch, where I sat down first, curious to see where you would seat the certain beauty hidden by those high waisted jean shorts. I couldn’t wait to see it uncovered, I imagined tearing them off of you. Mental imagery which felt closer to reality as you sat right next to me, placing your head on my shoulder and grabbing my hand.
We held each other, as you browsed through Netflix, an exercise we both knew was a pointless gesture. The tension mounted, the air thickened. It became blatant, we'd never watch whatever show you were about to carefully select.
You were a great kisser, your lips, inviting, a youthful warmth and fullness. Sensual, yet subtle.
“Do you want to get out of here?” You asked
Your first slip of the night, albeit an adorable one, you were trying to play it cool.
“Where to? I kind of live here.” I mocked
Playfully you bit my lip.
“Your room, you know what I meant.” You said
“Then in that case, yes, I would very much like to get out of here.” I said
As I followed you into my room, I longingly gazed once again at those jean shorts, this wasn’t fair.