I’ve met a man that I want to keep. I nicknamed him The Musician in my last post, but I think I’ll call him The Mister. I belong to him now – it is safe to say that even my fickle heart doesn’t want anything, anyone else but him.
I’m surprised I had this good of a connection with someone from match.com – we met on a Wednesday and went for beers, went to a couple bars and closed the second one down. He was chivalrous as can be and we were bubbling over with things to talk about. Also, he’s devastatingly cute, which doesn’t hurt. When it was time to say goodnight, I searched his eyes – that look someone gives you, someone you really like, right before they’re about to kiss you for the first time? Yeah. So good. Our second date we got dinner and drove to the beach, walked and made out in the sand, sat on the concrete staring at the storms across the water until we were sore, then clung to each other like teenagers when he drove me back to my car. I would seldom venture to use adjectives like heavenly or magical to describe a feeling I have when I’m with someone, but that’s how it is.
It’s been a couple of weeks now. The dates are blending a little. He’s met my cats. He’s spent the night. He’s said he’s mine, if I want him. And I do. Lord, I do. I’ve been terrified of things going awry somehow, of messing things up, jinxing it. Every time I mention this, he tells me how much he likes me, really, really likes me, and how he likes “this.” He’s brought me flowers (a yellow rose, on our third date) and burned me a CD. He sent me YouTube videos when I was in a bad mood. He calls when he says he will. His sense of what I want and need is more intuitive than it’s been with anyone else in the past. I’m enjoying it slowly and cautiously before I jump in with both feet. But I’m already kind of in pretty deep already. And I’m okay with that.