Long-term followers of this drivel may remember my longish affair some years ago, conducted with the tall banker I nicknamed Obscure Object of Desire* - mainly as we managed so few get-togethers. Although Cincinnati* has put him into second place in that respect, I guess.
Since he isn't a social media user, all I can see online is that OOD is getting greyer and still sings in the choir at a massive Methodist church up the road from me.
He seems to have patched up the marriage after we were all busted after my laptop theft, but I sometimes wonder how his domestic life turned out. Has he decided to settle for the sexless marriage like most people do? He's well into his 60s now, but aging much faster than is necessary as he has no interest in fitness.
Last night he even appeared in a dream of mine, after years of not appearing.
Like other dreams, it was mixed up as ever. I was in a cafe in NYC, sitting by the window and drinking coffee. OOD walks by and spots me. Here's the funny bit: I'm dressed like Elizabeth Taylor in BUtterfield 8, when she's bar-hopping in the black dress and pearls.
I'm made up (not with those Liz Taylor megabrows, thankfully) and I've just had my hair done. It's redder than it is in real life, though.
Initially OOD stares through the glass at me, then hurries off as if he's seen a ghost. I shrug and stay put. But two minutes later he is inside the cafe and sitting across from me.
He asks if I still have a motorcycle, still live in my crumbly bungalow. He seems to be shaking a bit, as if he has benign essential tremors. I tell him I've moved up north, sold the house and motorcycle and enjoying my freelance way of life. I don't show much emotion; I'm over him, as I am in real life.
He says he has to go. But his parting remark: "I should have married you. You understood me."
* See The Usual Suspects.