I'm sitting in a cafe, trying for the life of me to concentrate while an overall-clad mother and her litter of screaming children order caffeinated beverages, quite unnecessarily. A farmer's market is taking place across the street. I desperately want to partake in this gathering but I have promised myself that today I will write. For days now, writing has come second, along with just about everything else (more often than not this includes sleep) to day trips up the coast, movies at the drive-in and too many glasses of red wine. These weeks race past me in an intangible hurry. I feed off of single moments, clutching the last until I can get my hands on the next. In many ways, everything is simplified. There's no room to dissect or question and no need to either. But every so often my inner LabelMaker rears its troublesome head. I manage to push it back before the weight of its questions can descend on me but those questions always resurface. What is this? What could cause my finely-tuned focus and drive, not to mention my guarded walls, to fall to pieces?
Maybe the increased blood flow to other body parts (I'm talking about my heart, in case some of you have dirty minds) is impeding the blood flow to my brain. I can't recall crucial vocabulary, remember to bring my cell phone and oh yeah, GET TO WORK ON TIME. Last night I did, what is at least to me, the unforgivable: I showed up an hour and a half late to work. In my defense I wasn't aware that I was missing work until 15 minutes into my shift and the drive from my house to the Lusty is quite sizable. But really, there is no excuse. My head has been in the clouds for days. Certainly the fact that I keep choosing sex over sleep isn't helping the matter. But more than that, this man has done my brain in.
We went out for Mexican yesterday on his lunch hour. We sat across from each other in monumental wooden chairs in front of an equally monumental wooden table, making physical contact nearly impossible. Sitting across from him like that, feeling confined like a toddler in a high-chair, I came upon a new understanding of the word attraction. In general, I use the word to describe someone good-looking, as in "I'm attracted to that hot guy in my fiction class and I want to bone him". But I've never thought about the word in its most literal context. Being drawn to something or in my case, someone. I am attracted to Rhys, drawn to him. On only our second meeting I remember feeling this strange new sensation for the first time. We sat on opposite ends of my living room, smoking a bowl and listening to only fragments of good songs. It was all I could do to stop myself from walking across the room, sitting on his lap and pressing myself to him. I wrote it off, attributing it to the pot. But everytime I am face to face with him, that same magnetic tug grips me and reels me to him. This happened again at lunch yesterday, but this time it hurt. I didn't want to be sitting 3 feet from him. Even straddling him in front of other diners and shoving my tongue down his throat wouldn't have sufficed. What does it mean when touching someone, kissing them, even fucking them doesn't bring you close enough?
Writing this, I think of Rhys' reaction. He will laugh, I am sure. Like when I told him the tarot card reader I saw last year predicted that I would meet him. Magnetic soul connection? Please. I'm pretty positive this will not jive with his rational existential ideology. But I will sit back, resist the urge to defend my hippy tendencies and keep mum. It is what it is. I can certainly agree with the existentialists on that one. Whatever this phenomenon is, it reminds me that of all the beautiful things to be witnessed in this life, the best of those will defy all logic.
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