Watch how good I fake it.

I met a beautiful man tonight.

Beautiful in intelligence. Beautiful in eloquence. Beautiful in movie knowledge. Beautiful in spirit and garb. Ugly in unavailability.

He was, quite simply: all that I have learned to live without.

Like most taken men, they don’t realize the golden light they shine upon you which speaks of prose and possibility. They don’t mean to promise you happiness in a smile, or to verify your existence merely by being worthy of their own. Yet they do.

He was poignantly dressed and met each twisting turn of conversation with wit and something to say (as opposed to anything to say). It was such a tonic to meet someone who thinks, learns and then speaks, that I felt myself pulled towards him like a planet towards the sun (or like all women towards chocolate and Ryan Reynolds) (probably in that order).

The attention he gave me was so complete as to suggest we were merely two halves of a whole, that our happy ending was a fait accompli. Such are the perils of dating in the modern world. Men have become so adept at synthesising romance, in the moment, it feels perfectly plausible. It’s not so much that you’re fooling yourself (though, there’s that) or that movies have brainwashed you (though, there’s that), mainly just that they’re THAT DAMN GOOD.

But as the night wore on, alcohol replacing romance with cruel credibility, I began to think perhaps he did know of the web he weaved. That my admiration served a purpose for him and therefore needed to be serviced by him. That our innocent meeting of minds was not so innocent. He had a girlfriend. He was not offering himself in any tangible way, yet nevertheless was taking something from me – claiming the first flush of felicity, borrowing a honeymoon period to compensate for his having expired. I couldn’t help but feel his theft was, if not intentional, not entirely accidental.

His beautiful suit and shoes should have served as my warning shot – an ego dressed in siren song. Yet so starved am I of kindred company, I could hardly turn back at a red flag dressed so sumptuously. But after following his crumbs of cinema and philosophy (my drugs of choice), where did that leave me? Believing initially that we were making something, only to learn we were faking something … not back where I began but somewhere else entirely.

Like the wasteland which lies beyond the porch in Beetlejuice, there was something more terrifying than death (or singledom).

Fast food fantasy.

Published by the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

58 thoughts on “Watch how good I fake it.

  1. Your Ryan Reynolds awaits I am sure, and I bet you get to choose between plain and dark with a possibility of requesting your own specific percentage of cocoa solids too, (Method of application strictly limited to daubing.) I can assure you that the same thing happens the other way around too, not sure why but it seems to work that way when one of the leading roles is taken by someone with a aprtner. I have oft wondered if i that is the reason it all seems to fit, theres no awkward first date garbage and it is just like meeting a good friend, with the whole will we or wont we thing right off the agenda. And that kinda fits with being told not to search too hard. Ok giving up , going on a bit now.

    1. Sounds right, thanks Parky. If someone is with someone, perhaps they’re more like themselves with others. I still live in hope that when we all mature enough, we can reach that level of ease and honesty with strangers, sans ball n’chain! Until then, chocolate it is.

  2. I love how you captured this moment. Perhaps there is some comfort in that claim, in your ownership of this moment in this way? Thanks for sharing.

  3. I was touched by this. I’ve read a lot of your posts but not all, so maybe you’ve showed this kind of vulnerability, this kind of honesty, this kind of bravery elsewhere. In any case, I’m not surprised by it. Clowns often have the saddest, most romantic hearts. (By “clown”, I mean something supremely positive, btw.)

    As to the situation you describe, I wish I knew you so I could give you a hug. (Hope that doesn’t sound odd.) But I can assure you that I have been in the same situation and, I would the say the same things you said about men about those couple women I’ve had strangely special encounters with. You meet someone like that, and you feel as if it’s so easy, so right. You are connected.

    The cynic might say it’s delusion. But I am a romantic. I will say it probably was just as real for him. The hard truth (one I know you know already) is that it doesn’t matter. The connection is there; it is real, and still, no lasting relationship. Maybe it’s reincarnation. Maybe in a different life or in a parallel universe you met him and he didn’t have a girlfriend, or he did, and he broke up with her for you.

    Who the hell knows?

    You’ll find yours soon enough. That I do know.

    A Kindred Clown

    1. What a supremely lovely note, thank you Kindred. It was a hug, which didn’t feel odd at all.

      I think you’re right. The encounter isn’t specific from women to men; and connection is connection, regardless of longevity. I am a romantic clown which, perhaps like mulled wine, makes me a cynic post-fermentation. Either way, I think the cynic is always looking to be proven wrong, so it can return to its former body (the romantic) and live peacefully ever after. Unfortunately, it so often feels the world is skewed to support the cynical view, which makes me eternally at war between positivity and negativity. Or more accurately, reality.

      But sometimes you find positivity (or faith) not where you look for it so keenly, but elsewhere. Like here. And it still counts.

      Kindred is kindred, after all.

  4. Since my the latest ‘creature’ my muppet magnet attracted was a giant sick note disguised as a kindred spirit, I’m tempted to propose marriage to you Wuc. This would however be a little rash. Also I bought 14 pairs of socks today. This maybe a sign I’m having some sort of meltdown…?

wot say you?

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