A Touch of the Divine
Man, oh man! We'll call him Logan. I think he'll like that. He's one of the guys that "liked" my profile on OKCupid. His profile picture was one of this guy with absurdly chiseled bones and dimples and this look of...I don't know, like he had been lost, but found his way home and he was seeing that the person taking the picture was lost. A look of warmth and understanding and a thin peace.
I'm not sure if it was then or after I read his profile that it said he's 23. While 23 is one of my lucky numbers because it's my birthday, he's still 23. In my defense, he didn't look 23.
Okay, so I read his profile. It's full of quotes and these interesting philosophical musings. He's working on his Master's degree, teaches martial arts and either just doesn't want to share his religion on his profile or else he hasn't got one. I don't believe that second one for a moment. So I thought, and then I analyzed and then I thought and pondered and questioned. Then I sent him a message. I don't know why I did it. I normally would have written him off as both too young and too religious. You guys know how I feel about that one. I told him that he was too young and that I don't do religion, but I'd like if he messaged back.
He messaged back. That was kind of different considering that I was pretty sure I had alienated the shit right out of him from the first message. Well, that was pretty much all it took. He quoted this beautiful poetry about age and how we're always different and that as we age, we become different in our bodies. We are always different and in this perpetual state of changing. Wow.
He said that he liked, no I think he said loved, the way I wrote about motherhood on my profile and used "kinetic" to describe my run. He understood when I said that running is my temple and that while I gave Gabriel a life, he gave mine purpose. He read my poetry blog, which I post a link to on my profile and said that he liked it. He asked if I text and I said yes. I wasn't even remotely worried about giving him my phone number so soon.
It didn't take me long to know I had to meet him. Our first message was exchanged two days ago. Whoa. I almost just burned my quinoa. I really need to get it together. Don't ask me why this video came to mind. But that's exactly what it was. I was trying to explain my take on my ambition to my sister and I was talking about how Brutus explained Caesar's ambition as bad because it was a kind of mindless desire to do better and I couldn't even articulate. Then this song just popped into my brain.
Anyway, we decided to have coffee this morning down in Grant Park. I stood outside the coffeeshop and waited for him to turn up. I didn't see him immediately, but he cornered like a ninja, all smooth grace. Damn, he's built beautifully. Broad shoulders and barrel chest and narrow hips. I hope my mouth didn't fall open. Or at least didn't stay open. He was wearing red aviators. Yes, we were twinkies! He was dressed, oh my goodness, I don't remember. His shirt was a kind of olive color and he was wearing white Nikes, but I have no idea otherwise. I may have been hyper-focused on his face.
We grabbed coffees, well I did. He gave up coffee and alcohol for Lent. I also gave up alcohol. Hmm, I can't give up coffee. He had hot chocolate. He'd pushed up his sunglasses and I noticed the little lines around his eyes. They were beautiful against his skin and I enjoyed the thought that millions of smiles had made those lines.
I walked beside him up to a gazebo that looked appealing to me and we sat side by side. We each told the stories of how we got to be in Atlanta. He's taken a year-long vow of poverty, living with seven other people in what I think of as a precarious position. But how beautiful is that? I turned and looked at him as he spoke and his eyes... I didn't know it then because he hadn't told me yet, but he has those Italian olive eyes. Deep-set and dark olive, ringed in chocolate, with those eyelashes that make my heart sad. His skin is certainly of that same south Italian olive-ness. He has this dusting of freckles across his nose. I love freckles. Apparently, he's Italian and Irish. What a combination.
He took my hands and inspected them. My first impulse was to draw away, but I didn't, and after a few moments that desire to withdraw faded away as I tried to see my hands through his eyes. All I could see were the calluses from the gym and the dry, crackly texture across the backs from too long a winter. He said I had mother's hands. I can't say I hate that.
Then we walked some more and talked. The silences didn't feel awkward or empty, but reflective and promising. He took my hand and asked if it was okay. I told him that if it wasn't I'd tell him. His hands were warm and strong. I liked the feeling of his hand and mine and I leaned into him. It just felt right as we walked along.
We camped on a grassy little knoll, overlooking most of the park. We reclined on the grass and got leaves in our hair and all over our backs. And I didn't even care. I thought for about two seconds that I must look quite silly there with leaves in my hair and goodness knows what falling out of goodness knows where and then it just didn't matter any more. He said I had that easy grace of an athlete that I so adore in others but never had myself. He called me "energetic" instead of "nervous" or "anxious" or "high-strung". He likes that I make friends wherever I go, despite being an introvert.
Then this sweet man kissed me. I was nervous at first. Of course I was nervous, but that didn't last long. As he ran his fingers over my jaw and into my hair, I lost the ability to form thoughts. His lips were soft and he tasted like the milk in his hot chocolate. He smelled like sandalwood and citrus and man. Yep, I had a dumb. I had this strange peace with him. Like all of me was okay. That's refreshing. We just laid there on the grass talking and making out like a couple of teenagers, and here's the shocker, I did not care who saw. When he kissed me, it was like burning clean.
But alas, or alack (as I may steal from him, which he stole, so I think it's okay), all good things must come to an end. I wanted to stay there on the grass with him close to me and the sun and the beauty of the day. Responsibility beckoned to us both. He took me to my car and kissed me goodbye and the world burned again. I cannot wait to see him again. I swear, I already miss him. That sounds fucking insane when it's even in my head. And he's probably going to read this. Well, here's hoping I haven't terrified him.
I'm not sure if it was then or after I read his profile that it said he's 23. While 23 is one of my lucky numbers because it's my birthday, he's still 23. In my defense, he didn't look 23.
Okay, so I read his profile. It's full of quotes and these interesting philosophical musings. He's working on his Master's degree, teaches martial arts and either just doesn't want to share his religion on his profile or else he hasn't got one. I don't believe that second one for a moment. So I thought, and then I analyzed and then I thought and pondered and questioned. Then I sent him a message. I don't know why I did it. I normally would have written him off as both too young and too religious. You guys know how I feel about that one. I told him that he was too young and that I don't do religion, but I'd like if he messaged back.
He messaged back. That was kind of different considering that I was pretty sure I had alienated the shit right out of him from the first message. Well, that was pretty much all it took. He quoted this beautiful poetry about age and how we're always different and that as we age, we become different in our bodies. We are always different and in this perpetual state of changing. Wow.
He said that he liked, no I think he said loved, the way I wrote about motherhood on my profile and used "kinetic" to describe my run. He understood when I said that running is my temple and that while I gave Gabriel a life, he gave mine purpose. He read my poetry blog, which I post a link to on my profile and said that he liked it. He asked if I text and I said yes. I wasn't even remotely worried about giving him my phone number so soon.
It didn't take me long to know I had to meet him. Our first message was exchanged two days ago. Whoa. I almost just burned my quinoa. I really need to get it together. Don't ask me why this video came to mind. But that's exactly what it was. I was trying to explain my take on my ambition to my sister and I was talking about how Brutus explained Caesar's ambition as bad because it was a kind of mindless desire to do better and I couldn't even articulate. Then this song just popped into my brain.
Anyway, we decided to have coffee this morning down in Grant Park. I stood outside the coffeeshop and waited for him to turn up. I didn't see him immediately, but he cornered like a ninja, all smooth grace. Damn, he's built beautifully. Broad shoulders and barrel chest and narrow hips. I hope my mouth didn't fall open. Or at least didn't stay open. He was wearing red aviators. Yes, we were twinkies! He was dressed, oh my goodness, I don't remember. His shirt was a kind of olive color and he was wearing white Nikes, but I have no idea otherwise. I may have been hyper-focused on his face.
We grabbed coffees, well I did. He gave up coffee and alcohol for Lent. I also gave up alcohol. Hmm, I can't give up coffee. He had hot chocolate. He'd pushed up his sunglasses and I noticed the little lines around his eyes. They were beautiful against his skin and I enjoyed the thought that millions of smiles had made those lines.
I walked beside him up to a gazebo that looked appealing to me and we sat side by side. We each told the stories of how we got to be in Atlanta. He's taken a year-long vow of poverty, living with seven other people in what I think of as a precarious position. But how beautiful is that? I turned and looked at him as he spoke and his eyes... I didn't know it then because he hadn't told me yet, but he has those Italian olive eyes. Deep-set and dark olive, ringed in chocolate, with those eyelashes that make my heart sad. His skin is certainly of that same south Italian olive-ness. He has this dusting of freckles across his nose. I love freckles. Apparently, he's Italian and Irish. What a combination.
He took my hands and inspected them. My first impulse was to draw away, but I didn't, and after a few moments that desire to withdraw faded away as I tried to see my hands through his eyes. All I could see were the calluses from the gym and the dry, crackly texture across the backs from too long a winter. He said I had mother's hands. I can't say I hate that.
Then we walked some more and talked. The silences didn't feel awkward or empty, but reflective and promising. He took my hand and asked if it was okay. I told him that if it wasn't I'd tell him. His hands were warm and strong. I liked the feeling of his hand and mine and I leaned into him. It just felt right as we walked along.
We camped on a grassy little knoll, overlooking most of the park. We reclined on the grass and got leaves in our hair and all over our backs. And I didn't even care. I thought for about two seconds that I must look quite silly there with leaves in my hair and goodness knows what falling out of goodness knows where and then it just didn't matter any more. He said I had that easy grace of an athlete that I so adore in others but never had myself. He called me "energetic" instead of "nervous" or "anxious" or "high-strung". He likes that I make friends wherever I go, despite being an introvert.
Then this sweet man kissed me. I was nervous at first. Of course I was nervous, but that didn't last long. As he ran his fingers over my jaw and into my hair, I lost the ability to form thoughts. His lips were soft and he tasted like the milk in his hot chocolate. He smelled like sandalwood and citrus and man. Yep, I had a dumb. I had this strange peace with him. Like all of me was okay. That's refreshing. We just laid there on the grass talking and making out like a couple of teenagers, and here's the shocker, I did not care who saw. When he kissed me, it was like burning clean.
But alas, or alack (as I may steal from him, which he stole, so I think it's okay), all good things must come to an end. I wanted to stay there on the grass with him close to me and the sun and the beauty of the day. Responsibility beckoned to us both. He took me to my car and kissed me goodbye and the world burned again. I cannot wait to see him again. I swear, I already miss him. That sounds fucking insane when it's even in my head. And he's probably going to read this. Well, here's hoping I haven't terrified him.
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