petite anglaise

In the unexpected letter the person formerly known as “Lover” sent me a couple of weeks ago, one phrase stood out, and I noted it on a green post-it and tacked it onto the wall of my “office” along with all the other incomprehensible scribblings I’ve been collecting. “A pulse of hope.” I liked his turn of phrase: it was one of the first things which drew me to him when we met, two years ago.

What Lover was hoping for will never come to pass, but this week his words lingered in my head and took on a new resonance, albeit in relation to someone else.

For the first time in months I spent a few days in the throes of the most deliciously terrifying jittery tingly melty dizzy hopefulness. I’m at a loss to describe what it was about my new friend that caused me to close my eyes in public places and try to conjure up a mental image of his face. To stop dead in my tracks and smile or blush at the memory of something he’d said. To put my index finger to my lips, which felt different somehow. The feeling came out of nowhere. Knocked me off kilter.

Hanging onto his back as his scooter tore along rue Piat, I inhaled the scent of his skin, his clothes. I sipped a Kir in Lou Pascalou, too busy looking at the laughter lines around his dark eyes, his thick eyelashes, the sprinkling of grey in his dark hair, to actually concentrate on what he was saying. Little things got to me: the way he parted my hair with his fingers when I tried to hide behind it. The way he laughed and accused me of playing the damsel in distress when I fumbled with the strap of my motorcycle helmet and mutely gestured to him to help me out.

At the end of every date I craved more. I knew – the way you just do sometimes – that I could fall for this man. Fall hard. And the knowledge left me in a constant and utterly incapacitating state of joyful-fearful panic. Was I reading the situation the way I should? Was I setting myself up for a resounding disappointment? I marvelled at my own ability to let myself be side-swiped all over again. To shrug off the cynicism I’ve been cowering behind for months on end.

To pulse with hope.

And then came the “you’re very special, and I love spending time with you, but I don’t think I have the ability to fall in love, and I’m horribly afraid of hurting you” speech. Which doesn’t sound any better in French, believe me.

Last night I lay wide awake by his side, biting my lip, listening to him talking in his sleep, wearing the t-shirt he’d so thoughtfully provided (and trying not to feel disappointed that I’d worn silk underwear for nothing). I felt the pulse of hope fading, fading, fading; I tasted metallic blood on my lips; I smarted with regret and disappointment.

And yet still I persist in believing I’d rather live through occasional periods of deliciously terrifying jittery tingly melty dizzy hopefulness than settle for less.