ross
I dream of an adventurous life, one in which things happen and change and I go out and find myself doing things I never imagined in a million years I'd end up doing when I had left my house earlier that evening. And no matter where I go, in my dreams, one thing always remains Ð the love of the man I dream about. He is Ross. When I say his name out loud to my friends, I always sigh and they squirm, giggle or tell me I swore I wasn't going to mention him again.
This is a man who goes fly-fishing and doesn't care if he doesn't catch any fish, and if he does, he puts them back in the water. Who rides a childrenÕs dragster bike and dreams of befriending the gang of teens that ride their dragsters up and down the beach bike path outside his house. Who once cut eyeholes in a newspaper so he could spy on people coming in and out of the nightclub around the corner from his house. Who wants to raise tumbling pigeons in a self-built loft in his backyard. Who genuinely loves washing the dishes. Who stole a pair of bowling shoes from the bowling alley in the casino. Who decided he wanted to dress with a Òtennis vibeÓ for summer, complete with white shorts and shirt, white Dunlop volleys on his feet, and a sweatband. Who arranged to meet me at 9:20pm and arrived in the bar at 9:20pm precisely, checking his watch at the top of the stairs, carrying an umbrella as if he were a Ògentleman caller,Ó wearing a dark purple suit, pale purple shirt. and maroon shoes. Who has done one million other things that make me feel overwhelmed with admiration.
He's my man. He's the one for me. I do things like he does. But the difference between him and other men is that Ross didn't try and stop me from doing things. He encouraged me. And he was smart, too. He pretended to be dumb to be funny, and I'd start explaining because all the boys before him had been dumb, and he'd start laughing at me. And I liked it. Once I told him I felt I was running too far amuck and he told me that the good thing about running amuck is that it's just muck and you can throw it away when you're done. He was so, so good.
We got together at a party. We talked for a long time and then, before we'd even kissed, he asked me if I wanted to have an affair with him. I asked what this meant because the word is open to some quite scary interpretations and he said, "Have lunches and stuff." I liked this very much. I kissed him once on the lips and he told me he thought all the partygoers around us had been watching, waiting for that kiss to happen.
But our time together was weird. He worked nights and I worked days so we got together only intermittently and awkwardly and we were both too intense and laid-back and nothing ever sat right and we fumbled with each othersÕ intentions and then finally he just kind of wandered off. He didn't want to be with anyone because he didn't know what he was doing. (In that regard, he was like a lot of other men I knew.) But he is the only one who was still prepared to tell me that I wasn't imagining what had happened between us. Something was there. And still is, as far as I'm concerned. Dear Ross. He is a damn fool. I tell you, if we'd ever managed to get down to it, you all would have known about it. The earth would have cracked wide open. It was really like that.
Wednesday, February 21, 2001
totally crushed out about us story archive
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