Can I touch your heart?

finding sweetness I can tolerate

I’m in the city alone. Why? Well, I wanted to stop by a “death cafe” before lunch to discuss death and dying with a circle of strangers, and now after dinner, I’m watching an astrological improv comedy troupe perform the live birth chart of the evening. It feels good to be far from home, even better to be in a room of a hundred others all gathered to watch a comical and cosmological rendition of this one particular moment in time, never to be seen again. Each member of the troupe portrays an astrological placement and interacts with the others as planets in a birth chart would, all moving parts of a whole; astrologically speaking, their performance is impressively accurate, painting a stunning portrait of the moment, and comedically speaking, it’s hilarious. Aries Venus in the 7th house hands me a card advertising her divorce services; “If you’ve been wounded in love, I’ll make sure you get what you deserve: A BIG HUG,” it reads, and suddenly, none of my past heartaches matter. Only this one particular moment in time. I stare up in awe. These are my people. The realization births a tension; I travelled here alone on purpose, from three hours away, all to enjoy my own company, and/also, now I’m surrounded by the very people I always seem to be searching for, you know, on those nights where “nobody understands me”. What’s the proper course of action here? When you’re right in front of what you want? I mean, I’m sitting in the front row. Do I have to make the most of this one particular moment in time? Do I even want to? What if I like being alone? What if I like the daydream, but not the real thing? Do I have to try the real thing? What if I want it in theory, but not once it’s in front of me? Or I’m in front of it? I scan the auditorium behind me, try to get a closer look at my people. I spot a famous astrologer I recognize from the internet, bunches of queer kids, and one pocket of friends I would definitely want to meet if I lived in the area. In theory. But tonight? I don’t know. One boy in the crowd stands out to me, and I have the thought I always have when I see someone I’m attracted to: “Maybe in the next life.” Some part of me automatically decides that whatever or whoever I desire will never be obtainable, before even getting curious about the evidence. I don’t need evidence. “Not going to happen,” I veto, and it’s easier this way. He’s so cute, though, and so beloved by all his friends, I’m sure of it, and he must have the most beautiful girlfriend and the most beautiful life, and isn’t it just lovely, more than enough, to know that people like this exist out there? I spin imaginary stories about his life as I watch the group chit-chat after the show. I’m not yearning, not really, and I’m not jealous, honestly, because I like travelling alone, and I like being alone, and I need to be alone, and/also, the show was just so brilliant to me that I need to linger, just for a little bit longer, to meet the cast. I track down Neptune, shower her with compliments, ask her if she’s ever read Liz Greene’s book on Neptune. “No,” she tells me, before confessing that most of the troupe members aren’t actually astrologers, just clowns, and the creative director is the mastermind astrologer of the group. “You should join us for drinks!” she says, “and I’ll introduce you to her!” I meet Neptune downtown at a taco stand, and we wander into a nearby bar together. I’m internally freaking out, just a little, because I need to be alone, and I didn’t expect to socialize tonight, and they’re all friends with each other, and I’m a stranger, and I’m really not the best at making friends, but I am the best at asking questions. So, I down a vodka soda and ask questions, questions, questions. I interview all of ‘em, sort of, and then I run into that boy from the crowd, the one I made up stories about. God, he’s just delightful to talk to in real life. Present, attuned, and the question type, too. He asks questions, questions, questions, which first puts me at ease, then confuses me. “Why is he talking to me? Can he tell I’m nervous?” I can’t read him. When the group gets up to leave after an hour, I feel the dread that always hits me with goodbyes. I hate them. Especially with people I barely know and will likely never see again. I’d much rather disappear with an Irish exit. I think about running to the bathroom. I try to slink past the group of clowns unnoticed but barely dodge eye contact with the boy. “Enjoy the rest of your travels,” I hear him try to tell me, just as I’m moving debatably out of earshot. So sweet. And I couldn’t even say goodbye. What’s my problem? What’s my problem with sweet things? I fling them away. Hm. I sit in my parked car for half an hour and try to digest the sweetness of the evening. That boy was sweet. “Maybe in the next life,” I told myself from across the room. It’s true. It won’t happen in this life, not because of my stories about him, but because of what I know about me: I instinctively refuse sweetness whenever it comes my way. So self-protective. I had a fun night, though, so whatever, who cares, I’ll go home, and I’ll sleep, I’ll wake up tomorrow morning, meditate on desire a little bit—“Do I really have that much to lose in this life?”—and I’ll decide to find him on Instagram. I message him asking what he’s up to later. I’m not smooth, but who has the time for that, really? When we meet up, he tells me it was obvious to him that I reached out for a hook up, though this isn’t obvious to me, and I’m still not sure it’s true. I’m here to test how much sweetness I can handle. We meet at House of Pies, order some chamomile tea, and ask questions. “If you’re not into astrology, what were you even doing there?” I ask. “All my friends are clowns,” he explains, then gives me a rundown on the city’s clown scene. He humors me and lets me read his birth chart, but I’m starting to get tired, and he just got broken up with earlier today, today, he mentions halfway through the conversation. I ask him what he’s doing here. “A good distraction,” and it wasn’t that serious, he explains, but he’s still in love with her, and he thinks he’s love addict. Nothing to worry about. He’s attending Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meetings, and now I’m telling him about my own history in the twelve-step world, and we’re commiserating a little. There goes my hook up, I guess, the one I wasn’t sure I wanted. I would never enable a love addict, on the day of a break up, no less. Or would I? At the very least, it could make for some interesting tension. When we both eventually go quiet, we ask for the check, and he asks me, “What now?” I decide to confess I was curious about a hook up, because I’m sure he suspected it, and this is when he tells me it was obvious. “I don’t want to be an enabler,” I say, but I also don’t want to fling sweetness away. He suggests we massage each other, innocently. I’m suspicious, but I also don’t want to fling sweetness away. What’s the proper course of action here? When you’re right in front of what you want? I mean, I’m sitting in the front row. Do I have to make the most of this one particular moment in time? Do I even want to? What if I like the daydream, but not the real thing? Do I have to try the real thing? We leave House of Pies. He gives me directions as we drive to his apartment. At his kitchen table, I take my time skimming through a book on energy medicine while he observes my live reactions. I jot down the book title, we hesitantly wander into his bedroom, take off our shoes, and I study the dozens of other books scattered on his floor. When I spot “No Bad Parts,” as if by energy medicine, all of the suspicion leaves my body. He’s perfect. I squeal, “Are you kidding me?” and he tells me that the girl who broke up with him earlier today gave him the book. That’s more like it. “She’s a really good person,” I say with confidence, and he replies, “I know.” Suddenly, we have a lot more to talk about. Suddenly, I trust him. Something about seeing the inside of someone’s bedroom? Now I’m telling him my abridged life story, not unsolicited, but because he asked. When I finish, he stares in awe. “It makes sense,” is his first response. “Why?” I ask. “You have this intensity to you,” he explains. Fair enough. He’s been observing me for two hours. He says it with no value judgment. He says it as if he’s telling me my eyes are green. I am intense, and after hearing my intense life story, “it makes sense” to him. It’s not a problem, like the others try to tell me, it simply is. My eyes are green, he tells me, and I am intense. He is sweet, I tell him, and he asks to hold me. I let him. I experiment with how much sweetness I can tolerate. “Can I touch your heart?” Wait, what? He means literally. The muscular organ. No one has ever asked me this. It feels rather intimate. Rather innocent. He is addicted to love, I remind myself. He is sweet, I remind myself. I experiment with how much sweetness I can tolerate. He puts his hand over my heart. We sit in silence, feel alive. He wants to feel alive, apparently. He wants to feel that thing that shows him I’m alive. Our clothes stay on, and we alternate between stories and silence. When one silence draws on for longer than we’d like, I turn to face him. “Are you okay?” I ask. “No, I’ve been sobbing.” Silently. He’s been sobbing silently. He was broken up with earlier today, remember? I want to care for him like he’s been caring for me. “Right now I need self-care,” he says with a sudden impatience. It’s his way of telling me to leave his apartment. I feel the dread that always hits me with goodbyes. I hate them. Especially with people I barely know and will likely never see again. I’d much rather disappear with an Irish exit. There’s no way to dodge his goodbye this time. He walks me to my car. My body is flooded with oxytocin at this point, and I get sentimental. He brings me into a hug. “I’m never going to see you again,” I say with regret. “We follow each other on Instagram,” he comforts me, and for whatever reason, this is a balm that makes the goodbye tolerable. I loosen my grip, point to his eyes, then mine, and say, “I’ll see you.” He laughs at me. “You’re a really good person,” he says with confidence. I believe him, easily. I’m a really good person. I have green eyes. There is an intensity to me.