Monday was a lovely day. It was spent alone in counterbalance to all the hubbub of the holiday. Then, in the evening, the phone rang.
I have a crush on an inappropriate man. He encourages misadventure and sometimes the outcome is sinfully rewarding but he is, and will always be, unattainable. But that doesn’t bother me; in fact, its perfect for me—a person who is now quite comfortable alone.
The phone call was from the inappropriate man but his name glowed on my iPhone so I did not pick up.
And there’s another man. A man I took to instantly when I met him; a man who, like all the others who have taken an initiative towards me since 1996, fled upon hearing I was HIV+ only to return months later. His return and our attempts at intimacy went poorly from my point of view.
Right after the call I didn't answer, I got a text message from the man who returned. I did answer his text, so he called but I did not pick up.
At 9:30, a third call. I had no intention of answering it, but I noticed that it was Leslie, so I picked up. I knew right away from her breathing that something was wrong. Before she told me anything, I knew her mother was dying.
I’ve experience with death an loss and although I am rather immature, my love for Leslie, together with my experience with mother’s, dad’s, Peter’s and Rita’s deaths have me pleased with all I said.
My body is falling apart. But as I age, I am prouder than ever of whom I have become. Against all odds, I have found self-worth. I have learned from my experiences and I have enough love for others in me to be effective to dear friends when they need me. I did well tonight with call number three as others have done well for me.
At 11:00, I got a text from the inappropriate man. I ignored it. At 11:30 he called but I didn't answer. I wanted calm and quiet so I curled up, cozy in my bed, and turned off the light.