“I’m so sorry for everything,” Nightingale says, his hand already on the doorknob. He holds his power drill in the other. I’ve shoved it in his hands as if to say: This is it. No coming back for your things, so don’t even try.
It’s dark. I cannot tell if his eyes are rimmed red but I know they are dry. No tears this time. “I do love you,” he adds.
Nightingale doesn’t understand that love is a verb. “You’ve never loved me. You have no idea what love is,” I say, fully aware that I am speaking in clichés. Deep down I know it is wrong to judge his experience.
If you loved me, you wouldn’t walk out that door…again. I’ve lost track of how many times we’ve been here…
The Nightingale is known for his song, matched only perhaps by that of the lark. He harmonizes day and night, hoping to attract a honey. And when that honey is lured in by his melody, she is hooked…at least for that season. They play house for a while, and when the season turns, the Nightingale flies away. Time passes, the season comes around again, and the Nightingale belts his tune…looking for a new honey to hook.
Nightingales are not particularly attractive – their song compensates more than enough for their plain, brown plumage. My Nightingale, though, was absolutely beautiful. Couple that with an angel voice and I never stood a chance…
“I do love you, and I never wanted any of this to happen.”
Perhaps he doesn’t say this…I’ve stopped concentrating on his words because they’ve all been so empty. Instead, I study his face…that gorgeous face I thought I would spend my forever looking at. I only have a few more moments.
And with one last look the door closes and he is gone…
But this time, it is for good.
Nightingale was my second foray into Internet dating. I hadn’t logged in for a while, and whenever I did it was mainly for quick distraction. It’d been four months since I’d gone on a date. I just…never saw anything I liked.
Even now I handle online dating much like a testosterone-driven male does. I could care less about the message. If the face is yummy enough, I visit the profile to see more of the magic. I flick through the photos, and if I continue to like what I see, then I read the profile. If the profile passes (and many of them don’t, as you don’t even need to read between the lines to gauge their douchebag meter), then, and only then, do I read the message. That’s about a 1 in 100 average.
When Nightingale’s face popped up in my inbox, I inhaled. I had never seen a smile so supreme.
Clicking on his profile picture, I pray, please let him be 5’10” or above, please let him be 5’10” or above. The page refreshes and my eyes lock in on the height: 5’7”.
5’7”! Come on! Not even 5’8”? Why didn’t he eat his Wheaties!
But as my eyes skim through his photos, the 5’7” no longer matters and I hear myself say out loud, “I could spend the rest of my forever looking at that smile.”
I couldn’t have dreamed up a better face.
His profile is simple. 40 years old, college graduate, singer/songwriter. He likes chocolate cake donuts but tries to eat blueberries instead. He has a BBQ and is learning how to grill a mean fish. He surfs and does yoga. YOGA….Love it! “Let’s have fun together!” he writes.
Simple, too simple for me…but then there’s that smile.
I click back to my messages and open his. It’s original, designed for me, and much better than the message I got last week from a 24-year old schmuck: “the human body has 206 bones…but when i see you i have 207!”
“What are your bunnies’ names?” he asks. (I have 3 rabbits.)
This is a wonderful sign. He must be fine with animals! And he asks for my number like a good boy. Oh, am I smitten.
I play it cool. I email him my number and wait. I don’t have to wait long. He calls, we connect. He is relieved. I know artists. I know what makes them tick. Creativity keeps me wet.
I love the sound of his voice—youth and exuberance. We are the same speed. We make a plan to meet. I put him off a week. I have things to do, and he is going to be a whirlwind, of this I am certain, and of this I was right.
“This is going to be effortless,” he says, before hanging up. Dreamy.
I don’t anticipate the wait being so excruciating, but it is, because once my curiosity is peaked I put my mad Google skills to work.
He is all over the Internet. I watch his music video: Oh-so-handsome face, guitar in hand, angel voice singing one of my favorite 80s love songs. He doesn’t pass the first chord, before my body starts vibrating. I feel hot. My skin is blushed red. And this knowledge. This grounded knowledge that has nothing to do with his voice or his looks, floods through me. And my Higher Self speaks, “OH MY GOD. I’m going to marry this man.”
My Higher Self has never been more wrong. (To be cont’d…)