His ocean-blue eyes aren’t afraid to look deep into another’s.
When he stares, he commands attention—I feel terribly unnerved when he does.
Our eyes lock, and I immediately look away, breaking the intensity.
He’s rational, logical, and such a calm presence.
I’m bouncy, nervous, and considered wildly inappropriate with my humor, which I can tell amuses him—it keeps him wondering what will come out of my mouth next, which I quite like.
I fear my attraction may be more swayed toward his delicious height, his tattooed calves, and his masculinity.
It’s shallow, but is that not what lust is?
We are sitting at his kitchen table in his well-constructed world.
He’s bought this house, and yet, it feels large and empty—and the plants are in desperate need of water.
He hands me chopsticks.
“F*ck,” I think. “I am going to make an ass of myself using these.”
As the thought enters my mind, he picks up a piece of sushi with his and unceremoniously drops it into his soy sauce bowl.
I can’t hold back the giggle, and it escapes from my chest.
“Is that funny?” he grins, completely oblivious to the fact that something that insignificant would cause me anxiety.
It rolls off his back, and he playfully goads me with wit.
He is most certainly witty, but every conversation is a runaround. Every witty retort is a shield.
He’s emotionally unavailable.
He opens up a little, only to slam the door shut again.
Almost as if he is catching himself each time we find a good rhythm of openness—when we say something that may reveal a little too much vulnerability.
I enjoy his company, there is no doubt in my mind, but my gut is whispering something to me.
It says, “You will hurt yourself with him.” It brings me a tinge of sadness, but I am listening.
In a moment, unguarded, while we have been casually laughing about something—that sweet kind of belly laughing—he leans in and kisses me.
It’s hungry but gentle. It’s sweet and intoxicating.
His hand cradles the back of my head, and for a moment—one small moment in time—I lose myself in his lips.
I pour my own hunger into it, my fingers against his cheek, letting a small sigh escape as we pull slightly apart for air.
If a kiss could weaken the knees, he made mine as soft as jelly.
“This isn’t allowed, is it?” he breathes against my lips.
“Not if we are going to be friends,” I reply in a raspy daze.
We continue with the evening as if nothing had happened.
As we watch a movie, curled on the couch with two adorable dogs, my mind can only focus on one thing–the fragility of my heart.
You see, I have promised myself to end the vicious cycle of attaching myself to emotionally unavailable men in a romantic sense.
I no longer ignore the red flags—I value their message—and although time spent with him is not wasted, I am putting myself first.
I have solemnly vowed to remedy my own emotional unavailability—a glaring reflection of the men I choose.
I will continue to strive for nothing short of the love I want, and most importantly, deserve. A love that says, “I choose you because you have chosen yourself.”
As I steal a glance at this beautiful man, I feel a wave of contentment wash over me. The feeling that comes from making the right choice for myself.
Even though he stole a kiss, he shows me respect and understanding.
And all I can hope is that as a friendship between us blossoms—that he learns the same.
Because he might not be aware of it now, but I am the reflection of him and what is possible with change.