So I’m back in Melbourne and Redwineguy now lives in this beautiful city too. I know: I’ve skipped a lot guys, a whole lot. Maybe some day I’ll write the details of our incredible ‘visit to Melbourne dates’ but for now we are jumping to the present. It’s two Melbourne-visit dates and two Melbourne-living dates later; he has been living in the world’s most livable city for two weeks. Oh, and I’m totally falling for him.
Okay, maybe I’ll rewind just a touch. He called me two weeks ago to let me know he was driving from QLD to Melb.
“Driving? That’s a long drive.”
“Yeah, well I’ve got all my stuff in the car. I’m moving.”
I called him the next night to welcome him to Melbourne and ask him out for a drink. No answer, I text. We plan to catch up a few days later. Despite my late night suggestions we work with our busy schedules and opt for a brunch date.
“Aeroplane,” I look up and a forkful of avocado and ricotta is in front on me. I laugh before opening my mouth; I eat the mouthful with a smile still on my face. We are in my new favourite café and I could listen to his stories all day. He tells me about the job opportunity that he totally has in the bag (he just needs confirmation Friday). We leave; he pays. We say goodbye and there is no kiss … but he does know that I hate PDA.
I text Sunday night – “Did you get the job??” No reply. This is a huge deal, a big life event, surely if he cared he would want me to know?
Monday morning he replies – finally – he got the job and it’s his first day, he starts a conversation. I tell him we need to celebrate, is he free tonight? He wants exactly what I need. He tells me that calling past mine is high on his list and that I’ve made concentration at work difficult. Good: it should be.
Monday night was great. Have I mentioned what an incredible body Redwineguy has?
We fluff around in my kitchen for a bit, I get some snacks and well-deserved wine and he shows me houses he’s been looking at, before heading to my bedroom to finally get what we needed. He takes my underwear off with my tights: he isn’t wasting time. I can’t help but wonder if he has slept with anyone else in the seven weeks since we last did … I mean, surely. But then again…
Is he desperate for sex or desperate for sex with me?
I forget it. I grab at his back, his shoulders, his upper arms.
I want him to stay – the girl that kicks men out wants him to stay – I tell him he should, placing his hand on my breast, “just stay right here”.
I message Tuesday morning – extremely flirty. He writes back wishing me luck with the play I’m currently writing. I don’t hear from him again until Thursday night. I can hardly call what follows ‘messaging back and forth’; he takes seven hours to reply to one of my texts. I reply late, after I finish work. He doesn’t reply at all.
At first I gave him the benefit of the doubt – he is busy, he is stressed. He is both of these things, but a simple text doesn’t take a lot. Maybe I let people in too easily, too quickly. But isn’t life too unpredictable not to? A text and a weekend date would be really great but it’s clear that he is being cautious. He is holding me at arms length.
Holding me at arms length… Does he know that you can’t push someone away with straight arms? To really hurt someone you need them close, your hands right on their chest, their heart pumping as you push. Right now he has me in the perfect position: at any moment he could turn around and let go or pull me in and hold me, and either way he wouldn’t seem like a bad person. No one would be too hurt; nothing would change. The closer he draws me in the more the end will hurt, for both of us. He knows this. He is clever.
I hope he texts – I want my weekend date: rooftop cocktails and amazing sex, I want his breathtaking arms wrapped around me and not by his side while my name lights up his phone.
But I can’t do anything to make him ready.
Coffee, Dinner, Your Place. 