“Wear something nice. I’ll pick you up at five.”
The manfriend is taking me out tomorrow night, one day shy of our first meeting in the flesh a year ago (meeting of the flesh went down the next night; that’s another kind of anniversary, not sure if Hallmark or the far superior Papyrus makes a card for that). He’s playing out Friday, a band gig, so asked for Thursday special. Wonder what’s up his sleeve, what he has planned. I know for sure it’s not the Denny’s Early Bird.
Never made it this far with just one. Mostly the boys came in and out (dirty, meant to be) and admittedly I still sometimes sniff from a distance. Good bad habits are hard to break. But if the last year has shown me anything it’s that being a part of something is good. Better than auxiliary to a story line, I’m a plot point.
And things are changing, the duo becoming a trio. The kid enters the picture, a situation forced more by circumstance than choice, but that’s how those things go sometimes. I know he’ll dig me, bet I’ll mess up some and still pretty sure it’s healthy and right for kids of divorce and single parents to have a seat to genuine, gentle and real man-woman, boy-girl relationships. After all, that’s what you want for him or her one day.
But for the rest of this summer it’s just me and the manfriend doing the things we’ve been doing during one full orbit of the planet around the sun. Dinners and indie films and the search for the best burger, the best ice cream in town. He spoils me, treats me like a girl and I like it. I like when he orders for me, opens doors and lays a hand palm down on my thigh when he drives. I like that he knows how I take my cocktails and my coffee. I like his dog.
I like feeling part of something.
Before you think I've fallen completely into a vat of sugary-girl-sap, I assure you I prefer my pot saucy. Felt me up inside the music club he took me to the next night but, ever the gentleman, didn't want to assume. He didn't bring condoms.
No worries. I had plenty at home.