And I’m back.
Recall the scene in the classic Bette Davis film ‘Now Voyager’ where she’s left standing at the train station in that gorgeous fur coat with the wilted camellia corsage, tears streaming down her face? You do? Yasss. That is how I feel. Not really but I’m a drama queen and trying to make a point about the demise of my ‘trying to date someone half your age’ scenario. It’s over. Actually it never got a good start. But that’s not what I’m sharing here tonight.
He stopped returning my text messages. Cold turkey. One day I’m getting text messages the next day zip, nada. Zero. Done. I won’t venture to phone him for a real conversation because that would simply be (a) not answered and (b) far too real. If my life were a reality show this is the reunion segment where I’m all dolled up with triple false eyelashes and curse him for the dumb bitch whore that he is.
But he’s not. I think he’s simply young. And we forget what young people do. And what young people do not do. As in ‘fuck an old(er) guy.’ Ahem.
I could share the tragic details but we’re all adults here who’ve no doubt had our hearts broken a time or two. Just when I lowered my guard; just when I was getting comfortable with the idea that this summer quite possibly could become the summer of “we” instead of the life sentence of ‘me.’ It’s done. And I don’t even know what I did to create the riff. Maybe I was too transparent with my feelings.
Because at this age I don’t play games. I don’t have all that much time left for a window of happiness. Hiding my thoughts and true feelings doesn’t serve my agenda nowadays. Well, at least in this space and with a select few trusted confidantes.
It’s all so maudlin now. I sometimes check my phone for his text. And with enough chardonnay I think maybe he’s been in a horrible car accident and laid up in a coma while doctors and specialists try to grasp why he’s moaning my name.
But that shit only happens in the movies. I guess that’s all I’ve got for now. Besides, my camellias are wilting.