Drunk

Dear Jon -

I'm drunk. I posted the original missed connection that started all of this, because it was six days ago, and posts only last for a week. I don't want it to be lost, I know that somehow, but I also didn't want to save it to my computer for fear my husband would find it.

I wonder what your plans are for this weekend. I wonder if you'll be alone, in the house you shared with your ex-wife, or if you'll be with friends, or if you'll be with some other lover I have no knowledge of. Some other lover, some other lover, I have no idea what's going on in your life and it could so be true.

I didn't dream of you, when I said I wouldn't, and I never do. I don't know why, because I think of you every night before I fall asleep. I fantasize. The fantasy continues:

We get out of the car and walk up to the door. You unlock it, open it, motion for me to step in. The smell of old pot smoke and incense hits me. It's dark, sparsely furnished, browns and blacks in the furniture with dark woods. Your little cat runs up to me, mewing, and I kneel down to pet him. I'm terrified, and the cat is a welcome distraction.

You enter behind me, close the door softly, and walk across the room. You take off your jacket and lay it across the couch. I try to pick up the little cat, but he runs to you, and you smile and sit down. I gingerly rise and cross to stand before you, silent.

The silence drags on, for minutes. The cat is in your lap, on the couch beside you, on your shoulders, and you are intermittently stroking him and trying to settle him down. It seems he is for you also a welcome distraction. I am patient and measuring my breathing, trying not to let me terror show, trying not to let my heartbeat show in my neck or my flush show in my cheeks.

Finally, the cat dashes away, and we both look after him. When it is clear that distractions are over and we must face each other, you turn in my direction and look to the ground. I am still standing before you.

"I never meant for this," you say, and immediately I know your meaning. I am instantly furious, taking this to be a denial, and feel my flush deepen as I shift my weight on my feet.

And then you look up at me. Your eyes, so clear, so pained, so inviting. You are looking into me, trying to dredge up an answer from me. I don't have one.

And suddenly you stand, startling me, grasping my arms in your hands, clutching me. I am afraid, my mouth falls open, and you kiss me.

I can't go on. Not now. Not in this drunken state. I'll go lie down and imagine what happens next and play the scenario out again.

Oh, Jon. I don't know what to do about you. Next week at chapel, you'll be there and I'll be forced to face you. And that will be after our work week Monday and Tuesday. I avoided the office today, in desperate fear of myself and what I would do should I see you. But Monday and Tuesday I'll have no choice, and will you be there? Will you look at me? Look into me? Will you grab my arm and ask me to come with you? Will you clutch me and kiss me? I doubt all of that, but I do sincerely hope for a touch. Your fingertips against the back of my hand, a gentle reassurance.

I accuse you of being a coward, Jon, and you are. You let your fear paralyze you from approaching me or even admitting that I could have been approached. Yet I am also a coward. I harbor these feelings and do nothing. I can't even bear to look at you when we're in the same room. Maybe I'm not so afraid of what you will read on my face as I am afraid that others will instantly know what has (or hasn't) passed between us.

I don't know what to do. I only know that if anything is to be done, it must be before the end of the year, and that is fast approaching. How long will you be there? August? September? That's wishful thinking, I know, but I must wish. I must hope.

Please, Jon, I beg you, if you saw the missed connection or have an inkling for what is still inside me yearning for you, please, please say something to me. Say something. I don't know if we will act on it, or if we should, or if we will never, but I want some validation that it was real, that what was between us was real. Please, Jon, as a final act of kindness, between now and then, find it in your heart to admit to me that this was not all one-sided. Tell me that I was real to you, if only for a moment.

- M.