That night, I receive a long stream-of-consciousness in my inbox. He’s worried that he met me too quickly after his ex left; I’m much more than a transition person. I’m a city girl to his country mouse; he’s worried that I’m out of his league. He remembers how hard he and his sister were on their father’s girlfriends; he doesn’t want me to have to be on the receiving end of anything like that from his own kids.
He’s detail-oriented: he’s thought of every last thing and found a worry to have about each item on the list, which he rattles off in no particular order but with an increasing sense of panic.
He calls me again, and tries to explain his jumble of thoughts and fears.
Things are much simpler for me, though: I just want to spend time with someone whose company I enjoy. I tell him this, and by way of explanation, remind him that I’ve been in legal, committed relationships twice, and they didn’t turn out so well for me.
I just need the lines to be a bit clearer right now, I tell him. If we’re just friends, that’s fine, but I need to do some things differently if that’s the case. And if that’s not the case, then I don’t understand what you are waiting for.
Kiss me already, I want to tell him, or maybe I do. I think I do.
I understand, he says.
