Brilliant … But Bouncy

You Can’t Always Get What You Want.

I’ve heard it said that, for everyone, there is The One who got away. You know … The One who etched the word “forever” into your heart, but somehow disappeared before forever had a chance to start…?

That One.

I first saw The One as I sat crammed into a crowded dorm room, quietly gulping my beer. I looked up and there He was – standing a full head taller than everyone else, coolly glancing around and ever-so-slightly lifting His chin as a greeting. Everyone else seemed to know Him.

I knew instantly that he was The One.

As usual, I drank more than my share. It gave me the courage to talk to The One. He was deep – I mean, the kind of deep that I didn’t know existed until I met Him. He spoke in ironic platitudes and invited meaning into the mundane. He made me think. Everyone else faded away while I talked to Him.

Somehow a bunch of us ended up swimming in the college lake. Waist-deep in sludge, He and I splashed under the stars and kissed like movie stars. He fabricated constellations in the sky like “Honeybee Cluster” that I can still find 40 years later.

We all ended up in the communal showers at a frat house, wearing our lake-slimed clothes. He and I kissed under the streaming water like no one else was there. The night was absolutely magical.

The following week, The One took me for a ride on His motorcycle. He showed up at my first-floor window, tall and beautiful and strong. I marveled at His biker shades. He said, “Ya gotta play the part.” Purposefully timing the ride to coincide with sunset, we shared its colors silently as the motorcycle roared.

The One was a perfect gentleman; He was equal levels kind and distant. He taught me to play darts, standing behind me and directing my stance, holding my hand as I threw. He made me laugh. He introduced me to new music. He was so tall, I stood on the base of the flagpole to kiss Him goodnight.

Then I heard that He’d walked another girl home from a party, decades before I realized that male-female friendships actually existed. With my heart smashed into pieces, I whined at The One, expecting an apology that rightfully never came.

Time went by, me still shattered … until the night I followed Him back to His dorm after a party. In my drunken stupor, I banged on His door; I knew He was inside. He didn’t answer. I banged harder and wailed in agony and other doors opened but not His and I crumpled onto the floor, bashing my head into His door – THUD THUD THUD – until finally, He opened the door.

He was surprisingly calm. “What do you want?”

“I want you!” I cried, too drunk to have any dignity at all.

He stared at me on the floor: wild 80’s hair askew, black waterfalls of mascara streaming down my face, wide bleary eyes pleading.

Unfazed, He spoke: “You can’t always get what you want, Kirsten.”

Then He closed the door.

Stunned into silence, having never heard this statement applied to me before, I stumbled away from the door, out of the dorm, and down to the lake – our lake – where I sprawled in the mud and sobbed uncontrollably until the sun threatened to rise.

I never recovered. I slept in His shirt every night for years. He stayed cordial, but the rides into the sunset disappeared into my dreams. Eventually, when we saw each other at parties, we were able to hold casual conversations. Every time we spoke, even briefly, I thought we were melding souls.

He stayed deep; I stayed lost.

Just before my wedding, I found The One online and struck up a conversation, just to be sure.

He was engaged, too. So I guess we were both sure.