Tuesday, November 13, 2012

... if you let yourself be tamed.

We met in a hotel lobby during happy hour while I was in town searching for a new place to live. He wore an Olde English 800 baseball cap and ordered Miller Lite, which was sort of a relief. Tasha and I laughed as he told stories about his son, having no idea what it must be like to have a child. 

The plain gold band. Of course I knew he was married. There must have been some misinformation when Tasha's husband, Isaac, so blatantly tried to set me up. My heart sank a little, but only because I thought I was ready for something real. 

I sipped cheap red wine and the four of us drank deep into the night.

Sometimes I overhear him retelling the story of that night. How we met. He likes to start out unassuming - just meeting Isaac for drinks, he says. And then he notices me and Tasha in line at the bar. He asked me if he had taken my seat. 

"Yes."   I told him to move over.

And that's what he found remarkable about the night we met. That's the part of the story he emphasizes, as if it set me apart from most other girls. 

On risque de pleurer un peu si l'on s'est laissé apprivoiser.
You risk tears if you let yourself be tamed.
Antoine de Saint-ExupéryThe Little Prince


  1. I am scared of being tamed.my dad read the little price to me before i was able to read. i always tought i was the fox. and even then - i must have been 4 1/2 years old - as i faintly remember, i had this idea of running away...


    1. Running away is always easier. I might live with one foot out the door forever.

  2. So this is how you met. What the fuck does real even mean, anymore.

    I suppose I'll read the rest of your blog and find out.

    I've been suffocating in this place for 4 years. It's the longest I've ever stayed, anywhere, and I'm leaving in June. Both of my feet are outside the door.