Eleven years ago, I met a stunning man. This charming man could speak volumes with a playful wink. He wore a smile everywhere, he wore some tattoos, too. He was a man my father’d hate, and maybe that was the thrill of it. He liked to party, more than most, he took the roads less traveled. I was 16 and in love. He was pushing 30. He was a fighter, and I had rage, so I guess that’s why we clicked. In my mind I always knew that he was too settled in his ways. I knew I couldn’t change him, I didn’t even want to try. I loved the butterflies, I loved holding hands, I loved the way he kissed me. I loved how every morning he would call to say he missed me. Afternoons I’d see him making deliveries at my work, and like the cutest toddler, he would blow kisses through the glass.
Three days after graduation, it was time for me to leave, but not without his kiss. I went to him to say good-bye. He held me, like only he could, he kissed my face, and played a little with my hair. That man was good to me even when I broke him.
I arrived at college late that night, and called to fill him in. His words were warm, and I was stunned when he said, “Babe, I just want you to know, I know.” He somehow knew where I had been that drunken night before. He still loved me anyway, he told me everyday.
A few months later when I returned to visit, I hugged his neck, and stared into his eyes. The butterflies felt different, maybe butterflies of guilt. He kissed and held me just as he had done before. He still wore a smile, and winked that playful wink. He was the man I’d always loved, so I guessed that I had changed.
When I returned to my new home, I didn’t call to say I’d made it. The next morning I saw him calling, but for the first time, I ignored it. I ignored his calls and texts for weeks, but he didn’t stop trying. Finally one night I answered, I told him I was over him, and that he should just stop calling.
Months passed by, without a word. Then suddenly, just after New Years, he called and I picked up. “Happy birthday” was all I said, then he ask me to be his wife. (This was the start of a yearly tradition) I thought that he’d gone mad. How could he still love me? After I had been so mean. I went about my life, and started dating someone new. He was dating, too.
Years passed by with just a few sporadic calls and texts. To see him now, the butterflies still present, I am happy to call this amazing man my friend.
discourse of atelophobia 