He Thinks I'm Starbuck
I don't even know how to start with this one. I think I'll never really recover. He was that kind of man. The kind that fucks you up and leaves you fucked up a little more for the rest of your life. Like that beautiful dream that breaks your heart in the end.
We met at my best friend's wedding. The man has known me for sixteen years and I'd never seen him in a "relationship". So when he met her and they were talking marriage as my relationship was falling apart, I knew that I still had hope too. When they asked me to be a bridesmaid, I was beyond honored. I never imagined they'd want me to be part of it. But they did and I'll always remember that as the third time I was a bridesmaid. You know what they say, "thrice a bridesmaid, never a bride." That was a risk I would have taken a million times over for them. He is my brother and I gained a sister that day.
They held the wedding on a horse farm out in the country. It was such a gorgeous location. This big, old raw wood barn in a green, rolling pasture surrounded by trees and what looked like a Tudor-style mainstreet in my memory. All of the bridesmaids wore these sky blue dresses and red patent-leather pumps. The groomsmen were in blue suspenders, red bowties and gray Chuck Taylors. I wanted those shoes to be honest.
I remember it being too chilly for the strappy dresses and bare legs. I spent most of the day cold. My best friend had made his own beer for the wedding, but I was on a blood sugar regulator at the time that excluded me from the drinking. Running made that unnecessary. I was at my heaviest then. I didn't feel pretty. I felt cumbersome and clumsy. I was five months post-surgery. I couldn't run. It hurt.
I remember the first time I saw him. He'd flown in from San Francisco to see his sister's wedding. You read that correctly. He was brother of the bride, in the wedding party, I was best friend of the groom in the wedding party. I remember him leaning against the grayish wood of the old, unfinished barn, smoking a cigarette, his eyes so blue and intense they hurt me. Pale, and clear and deep an so intense. All of that pale, the smoke, the fog, the gray of the barn, and his blue suspenders and red bowtie, standing and talking with his brother. I fell in love with him on sight.
Being who I am, I never would have told a soul. I don't shit where I eat. My boyfriend at the time, who is still a dear friend of mine, told me that he knew I had a thing for him. I guess I'm more transparent than I'd like to admit. I'm sure that when I drank, I confessed more than I meant to.
Well, he got into a relationship with a stunning redhead. We were Facebook friends and of course ran into each other at gatherings. Me nursing my heart for him. We went to Dragon*Con together and this past Christmas season, when I was healing from a nasty ego blow, he sees me at a party and says to me "You've always been beautiful, but I don't think you've ever been more beautiful than you are tonight." I have never mastered the art of talking when I'm around him. I just blushed and looked down at my dusty rose dress and brown boots and smiled and blushed. That's all I can ever do.
Well, his relationship with the redhead kind of fizzled out. Turns out he has a thing for beautiful, one-dimensional women. I don't fit that bill even a little. I'm not beautiful. I am also so complex I confuse myself sometimes. He sends me a Facebook message and confesses everything to me. He said that when you look at me, I'm pretty, but then I speak and he realized I was a force, that he wanted to give himself to me. What do you do with that? After my feelings.
So, the night before my most recent Spartan race, I went to his job to see him. I wore a tee that shows off my pretty impressive arms, a red leather jacket and knee-high black motorcycle boots. I looked pretty damn good if I may say so myself. He acted like he didn't notice me come in. He did. He never misses a beat.
He was beautiful in this white dress shirt with a fine blue pinstripe that matched his eyes. His eyes and that perfectly imperfect dark hair. He broke my heart every time I saw him. He looked a little sick. A little sallow and a little florid. That wouldn't have changed a thing for me. I worried, but it didn't make me love him less. See, I was always in love with his soul, the artist that can play any instrument he touches and make photography look like something easy and create art that's incredible to my talentless self. I could never articulate to him what I see looking at him. He doesn't see what I see. Then again, I don't see what he says he sees in me either.
He held my hand across the glossy wood bar and complimented me. I just blushed and stared at the golden streaks in that bar. How could this creature think I was beautiful? I always feel lightyears beneath his gorgeous. Beneath his talent. My best friend was my wingman. He sat at the bar beside me and ordered drink after drink. I had one. I was mostly sober. It was one of those nights I prayed to a god I don't believe in would never end. "Wonderwall" came on the playlist and he says something to the effect of "sometimes the perfect song comes on at the right time" while singing the lyric "there are many things I would like to say to you, but I don't know how." He broke my heart in that moment. He's too smooth. But I had a race the next day.
I finally left him in care of my best friend at 3am. They were both drunk. I was drunk on him. He came around the bar and hugged me. I kissed his cheek and he made this soft little sound of happiness and pleasure, "ooh". Then he turned his face and kissed me while blocking the view from the bar with his tall body. My eyes are tearing up thinking about this as I flirt shamelessly with someone not him. Not nearly enough to be him.
I made my way to the door and heard him say "just one more for the road" as he followed me out. My heart leapt at the thought of his body pressed to mine again. He wrapped his arms around me hard and pulled me to him and kissed me hard. We both made this little sighing sound at the same time. It was like our hearts had wrapped around each other at the same time. I heard my best friend cheering from inside. He actually cheered. I felt like he really saw me. He loved me fat and unhappy and kissed me fit and strong and able. I felt like appreciated all of me. I left and got home and tucked in. And he reached out for reassurance. I gave it to him. I wanted him. All of him. The crazy artist and the tender, self-conscious, awkwardness wrapped in the body of an athlete and the face of a god. But I wouldn't take it drunk.
After that, he got quiet. I felt like it meant he didn't like me. I unfriended him on Facebook out of hurt and it took him ten hours to ask what was wrong. He'd avoided me and ignored me for a week. That hurt me. He said that he'd just gotten out a relationship and that I couldn't ask too much of him and that we had to move slowly. I said okay. And we saw each other again that weekend. We met at a local bar. He was already drunk, but when he got close, I forgave everything and all I could see was him. He was in this robin's egg blue short sleeve button down and he was as beautiful as ever. All I could see was him. I'd rolled away come-ons all night waiting for him. I was in a coral tennis dress, strappy gladiator sandals, with my blonde hair loose over my shoulders and about three tons more cleavage than I ever show, which still isn't much. He couldn't stop staring down my dress. He was celebrating a friend's birthday. The birthday boy walks up and says "nice twins". I'd never been more humiliated in my life. All I could do was look up at my date and pretend not to want to die. He didn't say a word. He just grinned. I don't know how to take being looked at that way.
He spent the whole night showing me off. I felt so beautiful. I was so content to just be that woman on his arm. He turned me into that vapid, beautiful girl and that was okay. His friends commented on how beautiful I was. I've never been treated like that. He was trashed. I wanted him sober because I wanted to fuck him until he never wanted another woman, but I wouldn't do it with him drunk.
I drove him home. He asked me to stay. I set the score. I wasn't having sex with him. He smoked on the front porch and ran a long-fingered hand up the back of my thigh to my butt, and kissed my breasts and my face and my neck. I changed into my pajamas: blue paisley. He said "nice pajamas" somewhere between making fun of me and wanting me in his bed. I crawled in beside him and he kissed me. He always tasted like cigarettes and hops and smelled like cigar smoke and pure sex. We kissed and touched through my pajamas and his boxers. I wanted him like Third Eye Blind. He finally fell asleep after telling me he didn't sleep much. I stayed awake and watched him most of the night. He was so perfect and serene in his sleep in the streetlight. His beauty hurt me.
I finally slept near dawn. He woke me up around ten and asked if I wanted to go play disk golf. I said I'd never done it, but sure. We went with the same sister whose wedding I was in. I was awful, but I had so much fun with the two of them in the sunshine and cool breeze. We accidentally both wore orange, him saying that was his Aquaman shirt.
He showed me off all day long. Like I was something to look at. I never felt so beautiful. He bragged about my fitness to his friends and his father at the barbecue he asked me to that night. Then he started drinking and invited these skinny, young girls over and ignored me. He invited me to stay over again and then raecanted when I got him home saying he needed his time alone. He's just so damaged and beautiful and broken and perfect. I left him and slept at a friend's house, too drunk to drive home. He asked if he could see me again the next weekend. I said I didn't know. Of course I meant yes, a thousand times yes.
I haven't seen him again. He never asked to see me again. He ignored my texts. I can't even act like I'm not broken to pieces over it. That's where it sits. I unfriended him again because it's goddamn painful to watch him be fine without me when I feel crazy. I just want to be near him. His sister says his type is "easy". I just want one sober hour. I could make that mean something. I can't even talk to him, but I'll be honest. I've had a couple beers tonight and I'm going to send him this as soon as I finish. Just to clear my mind, my heart and the air.
We met at my best friend's wedding. The man has known me for sixteen years and I'd never seen him in a "relationship". So when he met her and they were talking marriage as my relationship was falling apart, I knew that I still had hope too. When they asked me to be a bridesmaid, I was beyond honored. I never imagined they'd want me to be part of it. But they did and I'll always remember that as the third time I was a bridesmaid. You know what they say, "thrice a bridesmaid, never a bride." That was a risk I would have taken a million times over for them. He is my brother and I gained a sister that day.
They held the wedding on a horse farm out in the country. It was such a gorgeous location. This big, old raw wood barn in a green, rolling pasture surrounded by trees and what looked like a Tudor-style mainstreet in my memory. All of the bridesmaids wore these sky blue dresses and red patent-leather pumps. The groomsmen were in blue suspenders, red bowties and gray Chuck Taylors. I wanted those shoes to be honest.
I remember it being too chilly for the strappy dresses and bare legs. I spent most of the day cold. My best friend had made his own beer for the wedding, but I was on a blood sugar regulator at the time that excluded me from the drinking. Running made that unnecessary. I was at my heaviest then. I didn't feel pretty. I felt cumbersome and clumsy. I was five months post-surgery. I couldn't run. It hurt.
I remember the first time I saw him. He'd flown in from San Francisco to see his sister's wedding. You read that correctly. He was brother of the bride, in the wedding party, I was best friend of the groom in the wedding party. I remember him leaning against the grayish wood of the old, unfinished barn, smoking a cigarette, his eyes so blue and intense they hurt me. Pale, and clear and deep an so intense. All of that pale, the smoke, the fog, the gray of the barn, and his blue suspenders and red bowtie, standing and talking with his brother. I fell in love with him on sight.
Being who I am, I never would have told a soul. I don't shit where I eat. My boyfriend at the time, who is still a dear friend of mine, told me that he knew I had a thing for him. I guess I'm more transparent than I'd like to admit. I'm sure that when I drank, I confessed more than I meant to.
Well, he got into a relationship with a stunning redhead. We were Facebook friends and of course ran into each other at gatherings. Me nursing my heart for him. We went to Dragon*Con together and this past Christmas season, when I was healing from a nasty ego blow, he sees me at a party and says to me "You've always been beautiful, but I don't think you've ever been more beautiful than you are tonight." I have never mastered the art of talking when I'm around him. I just blushed and looked down at my dusty rose dress and brown boots and smiled and blushed. That's all I can ever do.
Well, his relationship with the redhead kind of fizzled out. Turns out he has a thing for beautiful, one-dimensional women. I don't fit that bill even a little. I'm not beautiful. I am also so complex I confuse myself sometimes. He sends me a Facebook message and confesses everything to me. He said that when you look at me, I'm pretty, but then I speak and he realized I was a force, that he wanted to give himself to me. What do you do with that? After my feelings.
So, the night before my most recent Spartan race, I went to his job to see him. I wore a tee that shows off my pretty impressive arms, a red leather jacket and knee-high black motorcycle boots. I looked pretty damn good if I may say so myself. He acted like he didn't notice me come in. He did. He never misses a beat.
He was beautiful in this white dress shirt with a fine blue pinstripe that matched his eyes. His eyes and that perfectly imperfect dark hair. He broke my heart every time I saw him. He looked a little sick. A little sallow and a little florid. That wouldn't have changed a thing for me. I worried, but it didn't make me love him less. See, I was always in love with his soul, the artist that can play any instrument he touches and make photography look like something easy and create art that's incredible to my talentless self. I could never articulate to him what I see looking at him. He doesn't see what I see. Then again, I don't see what he says he sees in me either.
He held my hand across the glossy wood bar and complimented me. I just blushed and stared at the golden streaks in that bar. How could this creature think I was beautiful? I always feel lightyears beneath his gorgeous. Beneath his talent. My best friend was my wingman. He sat at the bar beside me and ordered drink after drink. I had one. I was mostly sober. It was one of those nights I prayed to a god I don't believe in would never end. "Wonderwall" came on the playlist and he says something to the effect of "sometimes the perfect song comes on at the right time" while singing the lyric "there are many things I would like to say to you, but I don't know how." He broke my heart in that moment. He's too smooth. But I had a race the next day.
I finally left him in care of my best friend at 3am. They were both drunk. I was drunk on him. He came around the bar and hugged me. I kissed his cheek and he made this soft little sound of happiness and pleasure, "ooh". Then he turned his face and kissed me while blocking the view from the bar with his tall body. My eyes are tearing up thinking about this as I flirt shamelessly with someone not him. Not nearly enough to be him.
I made my way to the door and heard him say "just one more for the road" as he followed me out. My heart leapt at the thought of his body pressed to mine again. He wrapped his arms around me hard and pulled me to him and kissed me hard. We both made this little sighing sound at the same time. It was like our hearts had wrapped around each other at the same time. I heard my best friend cheering from inside. He actually cheered. I felt like he really saw me. He loved me fat and unhappy and kissed me fit and strong and able. I felt like appreciated all of me. I left and got home and tucked in. And he reached out for reassurance. I gave it to him. I wanted him. All of him. The crazy artist and the tender, self-conscious, awkwardness wrapped in the body of an athlete and the face of a god. But I wouldn't take it drunk.
After that, he got quiet. I felt like it meant he didn't like me. I unfriended him on Facebook out of hurt and it took him ten hours to ask what was wrong. He'd avoided me and ignored me for a week. That hurt me. He said that he'd just gotten out a relationship and that I couldn't ask too much of him and that we had to move slowly. I said okay. And we saw each other again that weekend. We met at a local bar. He was already drunk, but when he got close, I forgave everything and all I could see was him. He was in this robin's egg blue short sleeve button down and he was as beautiful as ever. All I could see was him. I'd rolled away come-ons all night waiting for him. I was in a coral tennis dress, strappy gladiator sandals, with my blonde hair loose over my shoulders and about three tons more cleavage than I ever show, which still isn't much. He couldn't stop staring down my dress. He was celebrating a friend's birthday. The birthday boy walks up and says "nice twins". I'd never been more humiliated in my life. All I could do was look up at my date and pretend not to want to die. He didn't say a word. He just grinned. I don't know how to take being looked at that way.
He spent the whole night showing me off. I felt so beautiful. I was so content to just be that woman on his arm. He turned me into that vapid, beautiful girl and that was okay. His friends commented on how beautiful I was. I've never been treated like that. He was trashed. I wanted him sober because I wanted to fuck him until he never wanted another woman, but I wouldn't do it with him drunk.
I drove him home. He asked me to stay. I set the score. I wasn't having sex with him. He smoked on the front porch and ran a long-fingered hand up the back of my thigh to my butt, and kissed my breasts and my face and my neck. I changed into my pajamas: blue paisley. He said "nice pajamas" somewhere between making fun of me and wanting me in his bed. I crawled in beside him and he kissed me. He always tasted like cigarettes and hops and smelled like cigar smoke and pure sex. We kissed and touched through my pajamas and his boxers. I wanted him like Third Eye Blind. He finally fell asleep after telling me he didn't sleep much. I stayed awake and watched him most of the night. He was so perfect and serene in his sleep in the streetlight. His beauty hurt me.
I finally slept near dawn. He woke me up around ten and asked if I wanted to go play disk golf. I said I'd never done it, but sure. We went with the same sister whose wedding I was in. I was awful, but I had so much fun with the two of them in the sunshine and cool breeze. We accidentally both wore orange, him saying that was his Aquaman shirt.
He showed me off all day long. Like I was something to look at. I never felt so beautiful. He bragged about my fitness to his friends and his father at the barbecue he asked me to that night. Then he started drinking and invited these skinny, young girls over and ignored me. He invited me to stay over again and then raecanted when I got him home saying he needed his time alone. He's just so damaged and beautiful and broken and perfect. I left him and slept at a friend's house, too drunk to drive home. He asked if he could see me again the next weekend. I said I didn't know. Of course I meant yes, a thousand times yes.
I haven't seen him again. He never asked to see me again. He ignored my texts. I can't even act like I'm not broken to pieces over it. That's where it sits. I unfriended him again because it's goddamn painful to watch him be fine without me when I feel crazy. I just want to be near him. His sister says his type is "easy". I just want one sober hour. I could make that mean something. I can't even talk to him, but I'll be honest. I've had a couple beers tonight and I'm going to send him this as soon as I finish. Just to clear my mind, my heart and the air.
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