He didn't say much. Men who matter rarely do, in my experience — they allow, and watch the silence do the seducing. He simply took my bag, which is the oldest trick in the book and somehow still works every single time. He looked at me the way one looks at a beautiful piece of art they were worried they'd imagined.
In my go-to traveling ensemble that unpacks many delicious choices, I strolled towards him. No beat missed to betray the moment I saw him. Waiting. Of course for me.
I was bold, salt-creased, sun-bleached, and let's be honest Lovelies, looking fabulous despite a tender goodbye, a top down drive (the car top, you goose!) a mere moment on a plane with a sail boat ending…not to be confused with a fairy tale ending. Although, it appeared the type of ending would, as always, be up to me.
I thought of my paperback man then. Unbidden, unwelcome, and utterly undeniable thoughts — the way his name (which you'll never get out of me, Darlings, so do stop asking) surfaced in my chest as I journeyed away from him and back to my life. It felt like a wave that arrives after you've already dried off. I long ago decided never to fight these moments. A woman is allowed to carry more than one story at once. A woman is allowed to want both the dock and the memory of the boat that left it.
We are, at our best, the sum of our stories. Every. Single. Chapter.
Unanswered Message man and I appraised each other in that particular silence reserved for people who once knew each other's…everything.
“You look,” he said finally, “like you have secrets.”
Darling. I always have secrets. That is the entire premise of my life.
“And an Uber.” I pointed to the sleek vehicle waiting for me. He moved to pick up my other bag. I allowed him to carry both to the waiting trunk.
“You travel light.” No reply. “Let me,” points for the generous pause “take you home.”
I smiled. My secrets were coming home with me. He was not. At least, not tonight.
“I didn’t need to bring much. Not this trip, anyway.”
I let him carry that thought home, unanswered, which is its own kind of hook, I know. I've never claimed to be a discreet woman. Only an honest one.
Home, alone at last, I did what I always do — I poured something cold, I lit something that smelled like the coast, and I slipped into the set I keep for exactly these nights.
Arriving somewhere and belonging somewhere always feel different. Women, I believe, often spend too much time mistaking one for the other. Tonight a man looked at me like I was his horizon and I did not look away first. I do not apologize for wanting what I want. Neither should you.
There was a note under my door when I woke to the magic number 2:22. I had rose to check the lock. Old habits, Darlings, old habits. It was folded once, no envelope, My name in handwriting I did not recognize and yet somehow already trusted.
I have not opened it yet.
I am going to sleep with it under my pillow like a girl of nineteen, which I have not been for longer than I'll ever confirm. I am going to open it tomorrow, with my perfect cuppa. And share it, eventually. Perhaps with you.
Some would scold me for waiting. Others understand exactly why a woman lets anticipation finish what only something placed exactly perfectly, can start. Which always, ladies, should lead to a perfect finish.
And yes. On occasion, it can be a note.
