I recently went on a specimen spree – so I have a lot to get through and I’m going to try to make this one quick so that we can move on from this antagonist to new characters.
A tisket, a tasket, let’s set fire to Mr. Redcoat’s basket.
We hadn’t spoken in weeks (roughly three – which is damn near an eternity to me) because he “wasn’t feeling it anymore” when I suddenly withdrew my attention from him. While sifting through my Gmail inbox, I saw from the periphery of my big brown eyes his name. Now, what in the fuck was his name doing in my inbox?? I ran a search to confirm that it wasn’t merely an apparition. Sure as shit, there it was – an invitation to connect on LinkedIn. Yes, you read that right. He wanted to virtually connect with me on a professional networking site. Come on, son. What a thinly veiled attempt to weasel his way back into MoMoLand. Because I had actually liked him, I was irritated at his resurfacing, and particularly at his choice of communication channel. I let the invitation sit in cyber purgatory, where it still remains and belongs.
Nevertheless, a potent substance (vodka) flooded my brain several days later while I was in the city and convinced me that it would be a good idea to text him. I said, “What are you up to tonight?” He responded that he was out of town and to let him next time I was in the city. I said nothing more…until one week later. Uninfluenced, I texted him on a Thursday letting him know I would be in the city the next day. We made loose plans to meet up. I didn’t tell any of my friends because I didn’t want to be that annoying person who talks an epic amount of trash (albeit factual trash) about how terrible of a person someone is and what a huge mistake it all was only to willingly go running back into the arms of the douche. Sigh, I was that person.
The following night, I met up with my friend who had brought this British plague upon me through her entertainment of Mr. Redcoat’s friend. Eventually, I told her I was supposed to meet up with him in a bit. Her response: “Don’t.” But like a mosquito into the shining light of a zapper that will ultimately shock and kill it, I was drawn to Mr. Redcoat. Fucking Brits. Well, a few moments later, Mr. Redcoat texted bailing, stating that he was spending the night elsewhere. Admittedly, I was disappointed and annoyed. However, it was nothing a little cinnamon whiskey couldn’t remedy. Shots. Shots. Shots. Shots. Everybody!
Two hours later, he texted saying he had returned to his Harlem-based apartment. I didn’t know how I would feel when I saw him. Would I wonder what the fuck I was ever thinking associating with him? Would we immediately connect the way we once had? Would I resent his terrorist-looking face?
I went to see him. He came down to greet me and he approached me to make human contact. I backed away. I need time to warm up in order to allow people into my personal space. Thus, I don’t like immediate encroachment into the Mo-zone. We went upstairs. I saw he was wearing a t-shirt I had gotten him that said, “THAT’S MY BITCH.” Part of me thought that was cute; the other part deemed it manipulative. After I warmed up, being near him felt amazing. We talked until 7:30 a.m. about nothing and everything. He suggested we cancel all of our respective plans and spend the weekend with each other.
TO BE CONTINUED…