sit next to me

My son, the love of my life, was having sunday croisonts with me. Chocolate almond filled croissonts. He sat across from me but wanted nothing more than to sit next to me. He is eleven years old. He asked if he could move seats. He wanted to fondle my hand caressing each finger one by one. He wanted to play with my hair, taking strands and braiding them or scooping it back off my shoulders. He wanted to snuggle up to my arm, resting his head on my shoulder. He wanted this as an addition to the coffee and croisants. For him, It added to the chocolate filling. I am his mom, he loves me.

The man that says he is not my boyfriend  doesn't consider affection. But don't be fooled by this fact. He is sweet in so many ways. He does want to widdle away his day talking to me about everything under the sun, while laying across from each other on cushions with a view. He wants to teach me deffensive chess moves while cricket casually plays on his mac in the background. He wants to listen to eclectic playlists of spotify music that range from motown to hipster bluegrass. He is content to do this naked in bed under a mosquito net. Why do I care that he is not my boyfriend? Why does all this leave me wanting? Why do I care that he doesn't hold my hand as we walk, or rarely reaches to gently touch my leg? My hair he doesn't twirl around his finger. He never leans over to kiss me. 

In the end he is content to sit across from me. Does he know that his affection doesn't measure up to an eleven year old? 

He doesn't like cats

What does it take to make a match? One that lasts. If he doesn't like cats, and I don't like dogs. If he feels that my politics are worse than jello. Wiggly and unfounded. If I feel that he is still recovering from being 25 even at 36, afraid of breeding and owning houses. 

What are the list of defects that I can tick off about him, and he about me. Like a campaign flyer on election night bashing the oposition. We are both aware of what we are voting against. Worse than repealing the carbon tax. 

He was visibly stilted at the revelation that I sleep naked in the presence of my son, despite his otherwise ambivilance about my nudity. 

I winced as he ate two big macs in a row, no chewing and then farted. 

He frowns as I glance at strangers with my inadvertent bitch face, proving without a doubt that I am simotaniously snobby and socially awkward. 

He is emotionally unavailable, abandoning all forms of intimacy untill I am left a neglected younger sibling in his presence. 

I am emotionally needy requiring hours of cheeck kissing, hair fondling and toe dancing for which my dance card remains empty. 

We are not agnostic about each others defects. 

Neither of us are perfect for the other. We are human and flawed. Cracked and crinckled like the discarded wrapping paper after christmas morning. We lack the new shiny gloss that either of us imagines we should have. 

But as my friend I accept him. As my friend he is just him. Funny, attentinve and relaxed. He cajoles me, is up for any adventure and says sweet and caring things at the best and the worst of moments. As my friend I hold him up to no higher standard than to listen to my boring bits of daily news in exchange for listening to his. We swap, him teaching me chess so I can beat my son, me ensuring he has a rain poncho or teaching him to make kambuca. We enjoy, we laugh, we keep company.

Is there anyone out there who will check all my boxes, fills all my spots, pass my corporate interview? Maybe the key to all happy relationships is acceptance. Unconditionally loving your flaws in exchange for you unconditionally loving mine. 

Lets not decide. Lets not try to pass each others test. No match is required. Let's just be, enjoy, share. The future doesn't exist. There is only now. 

Becoming

When you met me I was a cosmetic girl with harry armpits who smoked, you said. This is true. Now I am many things. Still becoming you said. 

In Indonesian the word allready done is jadi. It is means to have allready become. Your true form revealed. Already become. 

When I was 20 I had not yet become. I dated you because you were nice to me and always smoked out me and my best friend on your unreasonably enormous six foot bong. At 20 I sold cosmetics in a flashy department store. I read the beauty myth to rebell against my superficial job and listened to Ani defranco. We danced to 80's night once a week and I wore heels. 

I now wax my armpits, I don't smoke and my make up routine is mascara and blush. I wear flip flops most days. Have I become? Is becoming something with an end? A point of completion? 

I want still to become, to unfold. I want to keep revealing new parts of myself like petals that unveil soft new fragrant bits as they open. 

In Indonesian if something is unfinished it is blum jadi, not yet become. I have yet to become. My trajectory is only what I make it. A million me's between here and death. I am responsible for my own path. Blum jadi. 

The exchange

You message me. 

"Is it ok if I pick him up at 12:30?" 

You come on your motorbike and leave your hemet on. I can say no more than hello. I have no pleasantries to give you. My news no longer has any purpose in your pressence. 

I have a mild form of distaste that lingers like bad breath on my tongue. I can only feel yesturdays jelousy and anger. It rains and I stand there getting wet as your motorbike runs. I say nothing and barely look your way. Everything is grey.

If I love you it is only in concept. I hate you for choosing her even if I am the one who let you go. I want you to keep wanting me. You don't. No one does. 

We trade this human that we love. We share this love in seperate rooms in seperate houses. You snuggling him and then I in turn. Never at the same time never again in the same bed like before. Never all wrapped up together with a movie and popcorn all the love that he has under one roof. 

He is the only proof of love we have left. Even last month there was shouting at least and the ocassional hug. But now there is no more trying. 

You get him and then I. We swap. Tomorrow you will bring him back to me. You will stand there in the rain with the engine running and let him come to me. He will kiss me and I will only nod in your direction befor you drive off. The proof of love being traded in the rain with the motor running. 

My father used to pick me up at the A&w rootbeer shop. My mom would get out of the car and shake his hand. I would go to him and she would drive off as he bought me a root beer float and curly fries. Root beer wiith icecream tastes like divorce. 

You said you didn't want a root beer float divorce. That you wanted us to keep something of us. We can't. 

Just leave the motor running. Leave your helmet on. Give me back the only proof of love that we share and go about your life. Bitterness is the only thing left. The rain can't wash it away. 

One way love

Morning and evening 

someone waits at monsushema.

One way love

- matsu basho

"I never was that into her" he said. "She was always more into me" he said. They stay like this locked in acceptance of this imbalance. Thirty years pass. Him wanting more, her not getting enough. She gets fat, her a judge, him a lawyer. They both work too much, they both drink too much. One way love. 

He was buying me dinner yet again. For years he did this. Show up in Bali and buy me dinner. My sugar-daddy, he joked. He would call her later to say he loved her. That he missed her. I would sometimes listen to this conversation as he sat in my house. I would not sleep with him, no sex. I liked his company but was not that into him. I wished I wanted him. He owns a vinyard, he likes to travel. One way love. 

I sat over coffee with the father of my child. "I never looked at anyone but you." He said. We stayed coupled for 17 years. I know this fact to be true. I was the center of his universe as he honestly described it. He ate up all my offerings. Like thanksgiving dinner he always wanted what I gave him. I accepted him everyday and appreciated that he loved me. I loved him in return for being my unconditional safe haven. For 17 years I longed for someone I wanted beyond reason. Wanted like cookies and ice cream in summer. One way love?

The man who for six weeks was never my boyfriend returned after a month in Australia. I had forgotten what he looked like I said. His daily white t-shirt, yummy  curly chocolate hair and warm skin. And mostly his eyes, brown and deep. Now I remember. His Australian accent willing me to aknowlede we are not from the same place. 

I sat with him on a plastic wicker couch by the pool in the villa that had been the scenes of our six weeks of sex and friendship. His black newly purchaded samsonite suitcase on the floor holding his only possessions. We talked about everything but the subject at hand. I abandoned my visiting friend in a coffee shop so that I could sit with him on this couch and pretend not to want him. I wondered if anything had changed since a month ago when we had declared ourselves friends. When he said goodbye not wanting me enough.

He grabbed me and pulled me on to him. I burrowed my face in his beard. He kissed me long and hard. There was emotion there. There was longing. It felt good. I wanted him. In that moment he wanted me. I wanted not to think about the consequences, the future aching heart. I wanted not to ask or at least to ignore who he had been sleeping with this past month. I missed this man. I wanted him inside me, naked. Like a moth to the flame. One way love? 

 

Dinner and a kid

Dear potential suitor:

Yes, I am a mother. My son is 11. He is gorgeous, smart and lovely. He has a mother, a father, and many grandparents all who love him. He is mine. He is not yours and never will be.

Don't be afraid. I know that you never settled down enough to have a child and don't imagine that you will. I did, I was married for 17 years. I no longer am. I have a child. So what? Now I want just good company and fun. Don't give me a scarlet letter. It doesn't belong to me. 

To the curly haired belgian who I see every day in salsa. You don't have to stop giving me those long sideways glances of admiration just because I devulged this fact to you as part of casual conversation. 

To the tall swiss with the Seattle area code who I ran into and then liked me on tinder. My whatsap picture is just a photo, and shouldn't make you cancel our date. 

To the overly tan french guy who flirted with me daily until you ran into me and my son in a cafe and your tan instantly faded. You wouldn't get the privledge of spending time with my son unless we were dating for six months anyway. Don't think about it. Enjoy my company. Be my friend even. He is mine not yours. 

Its not complicated. Don't overthink it. I am a mother. Its one of the things I am. Its not something I am asking of you. This description of me allthough possibly my most important title doesn't even show up on my resume. Even employers don't have the priviledge of knowing this about me.

I am the same person you liked before you knew this. Forget it really. Be my friend first. 

Sincerly,

A newly single mom trying to date