Moth to a flame

I think we all knew this post was inevitable. Yup. I did it.

Wrong. So absolutely wrong. I did it anyway.

Here’s the thing. I wanted it. I really wanted it. I know my friend Kristen said that I should be able to stay away for myself. But that assumes that I want to stay away. I don’t. I so f-ing love her. I always wonder why girls go back to the bad boys. Why do I go running back to the bad girl?

Why does the moth fly into the flame?

You know, I do a lot of things that are bad for me. I eat fatty foods. I mean really fatty food – I eat hollandaise sauce. Which is really just egg yolks and butter whipped up together. These are two of the worst foods on the planet for folks who might develop heart disease. Guess what? I’m an American, in all likelihood going to die of heart disease. I love steak sandwiches slathered with mayonnaise. I love eggs benedict. I drink. I drink a lot. I like the way that alcohol makes me feel. I think nothing of sitting down and drinking a bottle of wine – at one sitting. No point in dying of that heart attack and having a pristine liver.

If it feels good, do it. I’ve made peace with the fact that this philosophy will probably shorten my life substantially. And it will result in hangovers, and all manner of other problems. So be it. Maybe one day I will regret this. But for now, I’m being true to myself.

It was Sunday. I was still recovering from a day on the water with paddle girl - so I wasn't up for any outdoor activity. I had read and re-read all the blogs I follow. Check all manner of e-mail accounts – nothing new here. I was bored. No, I knew what I was thinking. I was alone. She was alone – well I presumed she was alone. Maybe she’s banging her neighbor, or another co-worker. Who knows. I wanted to know. I was so hoping that she was alone.

When I could no longer stand it, I called her.

“Hey” she said answering the phone “it’s been a while.”

“How you doing?”

“Not that bad. You?”

“I’m hungry again.” She knew that that meant.

“Good for you. I knew you’d get there.”

I’m glad you had faith that I wasn’t broken for life. I wasn’t so sure. I didn’t know what to say next.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

“Yeah, I just… I’m…” I sighed. Here goes. Hold on heart. Here we go again. “I’d really like to see you.”

“I’d like to see you, too.” was that a sob I heard on the other end of the phone?

There it was again. Yes, it was a sob. Of shame? Joy? Elation? Remorse? Sorrow? Who knows.

“Come over. I’m home. Whenever you’d like.”

“I’ll be there soon.” I hung up.

I took my car (not the truck) and drove down to Los Gatos. I’m sure that I was speeding all the way. As I pulled into the parking lot of her apartment building, I saw her standing in the parking lot. I pulled into one of the visitor parking spaces and she walked up to the car on the driver’s side. I got out and she hugged me tight. We kissed. She started to cry. (I’m just going to assume that these are tears of joy). I cried, too. We stood there in the parking lot for what seemed forever. She pulled back, put her hands on my cheeks, looked me in the eyes, and said “I love you, Rich.” She kissed me again. “I’ve always loved you.” This was like the end of Slumdog millionaire – but without the Indian music and the dancing. You know what I mean.

We hurried to her apartment and stumbled in the door. We hastily undressed each other – leaving a trail of clothes from the door to the bedroom. She was wearing that blue camisole that I just love. I stopped momentarily to admire it.

We made the maddest, most passionate love ever. Twice.

We collapsed into each others arms and I drifted blissfully off to sleep.