I Just Wanted to Stare At Him.
Until that day, the Walk of The One was unique: tall above the crowd, head tilted back just enough for a slight chin-jut, his back so straight it looked like he’d graduated from posture class, arms swinging relaxed at his side.
In years since, I have learned that this walk correlates closely with emotional unavailability. I’ve always found this to be the most attractive quality in men, subconsciously seeking emotional unavailability above all else.
At the picnic, I saw Paul and couldn’t stop staring: wavy brown hair cropped close to his neck, bright green eyes, a flawless smile that lit up the entire park, over six feet tall yet determinably humble. When he slid his sunglasses from his eyes, they didn’t go onto his head but rested on his forehead – a trick that I found astoundingly cool.
Paul was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen.
Since I only had two months sober, I didn’t remember how to talk to someone I liked, so I reverted to high school tactics. I followed Paul around the picnic staying far enough back that I wouldn’t arouse suspicion, getting closer when I thought he wasn’t looking, then ducking away to avoid accidental eye contact. I just wanted to stare at him.
Eventually, though, it became painfully aware that he was going to leave. I was accidentally following him to the parking lot when I realized I was the only one striding across the green lawn with him. I thought, You have to say something or you’ll never see him again!
And so I did.
“Hello?” I called, in the mousy voice that always reappeared when I was sober. I could only do “loud” as a drunk, although I’d sworn that I wouldn’t be so passive and meek in my newly sober adult life.
He didn’t turn around.
“Hello!” I said a bit louder. And then he turned.
My heart fluttered and flew into my stomach, making me want to wretch. I had no idea what to say.
“Hey,” he said and smiled. That smile. (His dad was a dentist.)
“I just … wanted to introduce myself,” I stammered. I held out my hand, like they do in AA. “I’m Kirsten.”
“Hi Kirsten,” he said, pronouncing it perfectly. “I’m Paul.” His voice was low, smooth, gorgeous like him.
He wore fingerless leather gloves when he shook my hand; he noticed me noticing them. “I was just gonna go for a ride,” Paul said, gesturing toward the parking lot. “Wanna go with me?”
I looked to where he was pointing and there, in the summer sun, was a clean, shiny red Honda motorcycle. It wasn’t a Harley but, (sorry Larry), I wasn’t going to pass up this chance for anything in the world.
“Sure,” I said, happy to do something that wouldn’t require so much talking.
I had no choice but to put my arms around Paul’s waist, to keep me from falling off the back of the bike. I hadn’t ridden sober in a very, very long time – maybe not since my Uncle Tony rode me to the end of the block when I was nine.
Paul and I rode for less than an hour in the bright summer sun. He pointed at a few things, and I soaked in his voice, his body, his essence. The ride was breathtaking but my breath was already gone.
We returned to the parking lot and I climbed off the bike. Paul tied the helmet on the back and asked, “Do you want to go out sometime?”
“Sure,” I whimpered.
We had our first date the following week.