Thankfully, I had my reins on Rick. He was the perfect chatterbug I was hoping for. He just wouldn't stop talking! We were exchanging stories and laughing as our beer ran low. I trusted him because he was safe. His appeal is the stolidity he offers. Count on him to go back for you no matter where he is, to give you anything no matter how hard it is to get, to remember to get gum with the beer... but you can't depend on him to transgress or do something out of bounds. This safe mode of his, this constancy, iswhat makes being with a guy like him tempting and revolting.
Four hours later, neither of us were drunk or sleepy but were perfectly unwound. We knew it's time for him to leave. I suppose he felt an intimate moment, or was just so thankful, that he risked asking for a hug. Some guys give excellent hugs-- being in their arms just make you snug and safe. When Rick put his arms around me, it felt like he was clinging to me for reassurance.
"Sorry," he whispered into my hair.
"For what?"
"For hugging you." He knew he had overstepped his boundaries.
As I gingerly patted him, I realized that beneath the calm exterior is a current of desires, ambition, selfishness, ready to lash out and tide him over. The quiet strength is for show; inside he's lost and in ineed of an achor to remind him that it's smooth sailing from here on out. After all, life hasn't been easy for him. He's not even trying to make his way to the top; just a clearing where he can put down safely-- and finally--all the dependents he is carrying on his back.
The problem with men is you give them permission to do something and they push their luck. He was so drunk with love. It was almost pitiful.
If I digged into my heart, I probably would have let it happen. But as it were, I would only be doing it to spice things up, the dramatist that I am. It would have been cruel to give him something that has no essence to hold on to. I'd rather leave the thing shimmering at his fingertips, than letting him hold it in his hand and then shattering the illusion.
All things considered, though, he's successfully drawing me in his calculated mystery. A good story is propelled by the question, "What happens next?" His affection is so raw, and so wrong that I'm a spectator half the time as the author.
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