And then we went on another date, and another, and my stomach rolled itself into tight knots. The situation was entirely out of control because I couldn't say no to one more dinner and one more conversation. I planned and rehearsed an exit. I would carefully cross my legs, clasp my hands and address William with the sophistication of royalty. I practiced a speech.
Look, this has been delightful and you know I think you're a great guy, but there's no future here. I see these dates as a way to maybe get myself off ice and maybe as a way for you to venture into a greater romantic life — with someone else — but there's no future, not for us. We really should end this now and please know that I've had a wonderful time....
I tested out the chat on my bedroom ceiling. I sounded pompous and ridiculous. I tossed, I turned, and the words screeched around in my skull. And, one evening, during an autumn sunset, William stood in my apartment while I launched into the speech. Through the living room blinds, red and orange stripes flared across the walls, and he listened for a little while, until he put his finger on my lips.
Okay, he said, how old are you?
I told him, whispering to the floor.
Really? I thought you were way younger than that.
And I loved him even more.
Come on, I said. This is nuts, not possible...fun, but not realistic—
Don’t you sabotage this….Don't do that. I don't care about the age thing. I really don't.
But I do.
You'll have to get over that.
William placed his hands on my shoulders. His dark brown eyes stared hard into my tear-filled pair and I couldn't hold his look. His face was so kind and so filled with goodness and belief that I didn't have the guts to finish my speech. I dropped my face and shook my head. William didn't buy my excuses any more than I did.
Let's get some dinner, he said. I sniffed, blew my nose, and off we went on another chipper outing.
The next day my fears crashed down upon me as I sat cross-legged on the floor of my bedroom, trying to meditate. I wanted strength and clarity. I wanted to settle my heart, but started crying instead. Overcome with gulping sobs, I tipped sideways and lay my cheek on golden hardwood. My cat, Spencer, circled around and around my prone body. I cried like a lost child. I pressed my forehead to the floor and begged for an answer.
And it came. Don't ask me from where, but with the purity of an excellent radio signal these words ran through my head:
It doesn't matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.
I sniffed, I slurped, and I stopped crying. I pushed myself up straight, picked Spencer up and assured him I was going to be okay because I believed those words. I couldn't predict where William and I would end up but It doesn't matter rang true and I decided to try to erase the age thing from my worries.
I closed my eyes, breathed calmly and made the choice to rid myself of the anxiety. The resolution was born of these overriding thoughts: I do not want to lose him. I want to love him. Nothing else matters because there is no room for those concerns. I have no space for those thoughts.
Spencer purred in my lap. If cats could talk. The poor fellow had adapted to his share of homes, boyfriends and husbands. Now he was going to hang in for one more chancy maneuver by his owner.
So is the way of the world, the heart, kismet, and the wisdom of a hardwood floor.
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