Nov 18 2024
Heavens to Betsy! I had to dust off my keyboard this morning, before wiping away the shame at the thought of calling myself a “writer.” I must implore you to forgive me for my flaccid fingertips. If there was a little blue pill I could take to heal my creative ails, I promise I would.
I am writing to you now (barely) from my dining room table at the Fox Den. Sipping a delicious cup of dark roast, I am wrapped in a cozy L.L Bean sweater I bought 40% off. Outside on this November day, the sky is a familiar grey. Inside the apartment is quiet, apart from the slumbering sounds of Bow, formerly known as my “younger boyfriend.”
At this moment, I can tell you with casual warmth, I have been off the market for nine months and eight days. I can also tell you who is counting: me.
It feels like decades ago, that I would spend the evenings scrolling through endless faces of strange men to encounter. Now, I pass the time on my phone each night, sending countless messages to one man asking, “Why aren’t you home yet?”
I know from my socials, it may appear this relationship has been one much-liked Instagram photo after the next, and it has. However, that is not to say, there have been many deleted What’s App messages along the way.
>
“At this moment, I can tell you with casual warmth, I have been off the market for nine months and eight days. I can also tell you who is counting: me. ”
Bow and I celebrated the occasion for our six-month plus one-day anniversary at a fancy Italian restaurant downtown. Dressed to the nines, we checked in for our 3:00 PM reservation for Happy Hour.
Taking a seat on the picturesque patio next to an Italian marble statue with a trickling waterfall, the afternoon sun casts a radiant glow on our white tablecloth.
“This place is so nice,” I said to Bow, as the host placed down our menus. “You remembered your gift card, right?”
Placing his hand over his brow, he simultaneously disregarded my question and thanked the wait staff.
When two glasses of complimentary prosecco arrived next, I could not wait to raise a toast.
“Cheers babe,” I said, “to breaking the six-month…”
Before I could say another word, I watched the blood drain from Bow’s face in terror. Beads of nervous sweat racing down his forehead, I noticed his champagne flute begin to shake mid-air. All of a sudden, it felt like a bomb was going to go off.
At that moment, Bow knew what I could no longer deny. From the late night/early morning, we first met, I confessed to him that for 39 years on this planet, I had been subjected to a horrific “six-month curse.” Not once, had I managed to successfully see a relationship last longer than half a year’s time.
In the first few weeks, we were together, he reassured me that I was just being dramatic and had nothing to worry about. But then, as more time passed, and the seasons changed, we both discovered tragically, that there was no curse at all – it was just me! The closer he tried to get to my heart – the faster I ran! Literally.
In month five, I was setting world records sprinting out of gay bars on Davie Street one Friday night after the next. I swear, other gays would look at me on the dancefloor and then check the time, thinking “When is Rugged going to run?” While it is true, that I am a fan of an occasional dramatic entrance and exit; I pause when one begins to build a reputation for it.
My glass still raised in the air; I pivoted.
“Cheers to making it… Facebook official,” I said loud and proud.
“Cheers honey,” Bow smiled.
As our glasses clinked there was no explosion, not one piece of shattered glass.
Well, wouldn’t you know! After several glasses of happy hour pink wine, one bowl of mixed olives, and a Caesar salad, we failed to notice the flashing blue and red lights outside. As we paid the bill and stood up to leave, the restaurant manager calmly escorted us through the kitchen and out the back door.
Standing in the alley, we wondered if this was some kind of special VIP treatment.
“Gentlemen,” the manager said sternly, “please leave now, quickly. There is a bomb threat across the street, and they have shut down the entire block.”
“Are we on a movie set?” I asked Bow, nearly fumbling over my brown wing tips.
“No Rugged,” he took my arm, “now let’s leave before we do blow up.”