When we have our hearts broken, or lay victim to unrequited love, do we ever really give up the day dreams? The shoulda-woulda-coulda's and the ghost of our feelings? Do we ever completely shake the glimmer of hope that they'll come back, years later and begging for forgiveness? When it comes to Handsome Parisian, I can say that I'm thoroughly erked that I wasn't able to ignite any embers of commitment in his heart. But after three months between us, what remains of him in my mind has waned to an image of his ENORMOUS dinner plate hands. Big hands make me absolutely weak in the knees, and, if nothing else, it's the ghost of those hands on my body that would lead me down the path of infidelity, if anything did.
Last night, I Skyped with TMI for the first time since he left. He was standing under a street lamp outside the vineyard and his face faded in and out of focus. I was surprised by how handsome he looked. Like new lovers usually do, we talked about nothing and smiled foolishly at one another for 45 minutes until his battery died. Before he went he assumed a serious face and said "I love you. Really, je t'aime." He says it sparingly and never just throws the words around; always adding my name at the end.
I was affected by his sincerity. Today, while working in the cafe and passing a lull on Facebook, Handsome Parisian prodded me flirtatiously about visiting. In a sudden act of righteousness that surprised even me, I told him I'd decided we should skip it. Something inside me finally gave way and I saw him in a different light: a devastatingly handsome jerk and probably the end of a relationship with a man who truly loves me. And so, just like that, I resolved to forget the hands and give up the ghost.
