For weeks, I buried my feelings during shared breakfast smoothies following romantic sleepovers, bbq dinners at George's place, and snuggle-time for the purpose of watching Millionaire Matchmaker. We even took a merry trip to Lake Tahoe. There, George and I played in the snow, ate at buffets, toured the town, ate at buffets, shared a cozy hotel room and yada yada, and we ate at buffets.
On the drive home from Tahoe, though, a surge of emotions struck. A silent waterfall of tears scurried down my face. "I love him, but he doesn't love me," I thought. "Stop it. You're always too negative," I re-thought. "Yeah, but he never expresses his feelings," I counter-thought. And so on. And then I'd stop crying. But then I'd start again. I positioned myself to look out the window and managed to stop long enough, after stretches of time, to chat a bit: "You doing okay with the drive? The snow looks beautiful."
Yet memories and questions badgered me--my ex-husband and the insurmountable pain that resulted from our fall-out, the fact that George hadn't even called me his girlfriend yet, and the timing of the whole thing. It'd been six weeks. Isn't that enough time? When does a matzo ball expire?
Alas, the long drive was over. I dropped my bag on George's hallway floor, when he noticed that I'd been crying. "What's wrong?" his tone conveyed warmth and nervousness.
to be continued.
