The Second Coming

A man who does not care if I live or die has just texted me the three words I’ve been dying to hear.

Hey, what’s up?

Holy shit.

After six months of being ghosted, the prophecy is finally being fulfilled. Not that I ever doubted it. I have devoted considerable time to learning tarot for the sole purpose of asking the cards whether this man would ever speak to me again. I've asked the same question thirty different ways, hoping that eventually the cards might give me a more favorable answer. Will he contact me? Is reconciliation approaching? What energy surrounds our connection? Is the Eight of Wands perhaps suggesting that he is composing a text right now? I’ve become quite good at interpreting the cards, particularly when they tell me what I want to hear.

I immediately screenshot the message and distribute it to three group chats, several coworkers, and practically everyone who has had the misfortune of listening to me discuss this man at length over the past six months.

The responses arrive almost immediately.

Girl.

I thought he was blocked.

Please tell me you’re not about to do this again.

I appreciate their concerns, but I haven’t convened this council to hear objections. We have a message to answer.

For context, we're talking about five-star dick here. A rating only two men in my life have ever received. That's one whole star above amazing. So imagine.

And I've been fortunate enough to have a lot of really good sex. A lot. In fact, I've had considerably more good sex than bad, and I consider that one of the great blessings of my adult life.

He pays attention. He remembers what I like, including the things I haven't had to tell him. He knows when to take his time and when I've had quite enough of waiting. He seems to consider my orgasm a personal responsibility. And he does this thing with his tongue that I once asked him to explain to me so I could share the good word with his colleagues.

Look, he’s not Man of the Year. The man just ghosted me for six months. But I’m not evaluating him for a lifetime achievement award. I’m evaluating him for a very specific skill set, and in that department, his qualifications are exceptional.

Now that he’s finally returned, I expect everyone to set aside their personal opinions and assist me with the matter at hand.

What the fuck do I say?

We spend thirty-seven minutes deliberating. The response must communicate that I’m surprised but not particularly impressed, interested but not eager, and doing so exceptionally well without him that his return is little more than a pleasant interruption to an otherwise fabulous life. Ideally, I want him to believe I’ve been occupied with important things. Traveling. Advancing my career. Perhaps entertaining romantic offers from men who actually respond to my messages.

Several suggestions are considered and rejected. Hey stranger sounds too welcoming. Look who it is suggests I’ve been keeping track of his absence. Responding with a simple hey feels unimaginative. After extensive consultation, I arrive at what I believe to be the perfect response.

Whoa.

Four letters. One syllable. Detached enough that he won’t think I’ve been waiting for him, but interesting enough to encourage further conversation. It’s the kind of response a woman might send if she were genuinely surprised to hear from someone she’d spent the last six months consulting tarot cards about.

I press send and congratulate myself on my restraint.

He asks how I’ve been.

I’ve been amazing, I lie.

I ask how he’s been.

Good, he responds.

I believe him. I have no reason to think his last six months have involved any significant interruptions to his happiness. Mine, on the other hand, have included unanswered messages, several friends threatening to confiscate my phone, and a concerning amount of time devoted to interpreting the Eight of Wands.

I ask why he’s decided to contact me.

He doesn’t respond for two and a half hours.

I spend the next two and a half hours cleaning my house and listening to Jessie Reyez, imagining the extraordinary love story that has apparently resumed production. Every few minutes, I stop what I’m doing to check my phone. Sometimes I don’t even wait for a notification. I just check in case the message has somehow arrived without alerting me.

The phone vibrates while I’m wiping down the kitchen counter. I reach for it so quickly that the cleaning spray nearly goes with me.

Someone has liked my Instagram story.

I put the phone down, finish one section of the counter, and check again.

Nothing.

The next vibration is Target, informing me of a sale with no respect for the emotional importance of the evening. By the time I’ve finished cleaning the kitchen, I’ve mentally planned our wedding, reconsidered the guest list, and selected an officiant. I imagine standing at the altar, looking absolutely beautiful, as the officiant prepares to pronounce us husband and wife. Then I realize I don’t actually know this man’s last name. That, now that I think about it, might explain why the tarot cards have been so unhelpful. Perhaps they’ve been trying to tell me to gather some basic information before consulting the supernatural.

At last, my phone lights up.

Dinner later?

Oh, we’re so back.

I have several questions, beginning with why he disappeared for six months and ending with whether he’s finally prepared to acknowledge the undeniable significance of our connection. But those questions can wait. I have a date.

I agree to dinner with the casual enthusiasm of a woman who hasn’t already begun considering what she’s going to wear, how she’s going to style her hair, and whether the evening might end at his apartment. My response is brief. I don’t want to seem too available. There will be plenty of time to demonstrate exactly how available I am later.

Getting ready requires a particular kind of discipline. I want to look spectacular, naturally, but not as though I’ve made any extraordinary effort. The objective is for him to see me and think, God, I’ve missed her, without suspecting that I’ve spent the better part of an afternoon constructing that reaction.

I shower, moisturize, put on perfume, and try on several outfits before selecting the one that most convincingly suggests I have simply thrown something on. I pay special attention to my underwear, selecting the pair I think will look best on the floor of his bedroom. I don't even know why he wants to see me all of a sudden, but a girl can dream.

Halfway through getting dressed, my phone lights up. It’s a man I’ve been seeing casually for the past couple of months.

Still on for tonight?

Oh, sweetheart.

Sorry, buddy. You’ve been outranked.

I turn off my location sharing before leaving. My friends have made their opinions on this man abundantly clear, and I’d hate for someone to interfere with what is shaping up to be an excellent evening of poor decision-making.

By the time I leave, I’m running late. Not terribly late. Just late enough that I can pretend I was occupied with something other than getting ready to see him.

I get into my car, turn on my music, and begin the drive.

There’s something about driving to see a man you’re excited about that I find difficult to explain to people who don’t enjoy this sort of thing. The anticipation starts long before you arrive. Every mile brings you closer to whatever might happen. I imagine the look on his face when he sees me. I imagine how the evening might unfold, revising the details as necessary to make the story more compelling.

By the time I reach the restaurant, I’ve already had a wonderful time.

He’s there when I arrive.

And God, he looks good.

I generally prefer my men just a little bit ugly. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to keep my feet on the ground. I find that a slight deficiency in the looks department does wonders for my ability to make rational decisions.

I momentarily forget the speech I considered delivering about communication and basic human decency. There was a version of this evening in which I calmly explained that disappearing and returning as though nothing happened was unacceptable behavior. I had several excellent points prepared, including one about emotional maturity that I was particularly proud of.

Unfortunately, this man is fine as fuck.

We hug. I catch the familiar scent of his cologne, and briefly entertain the possibility that he’s missed me terribly. He probably hasn’t. But I don’t see how a little imagination is hurting anybody.

We sit down to dinner.

He asks what I’ve been doing, and I tell him about work, travel, friends, and the various developments in my life that have occurred while he’s been busy not speaking to me. I leave out the tarot. He tells me about his life, and I listen, asking questions and laughing at his jokes.

At some point, he gives me a particular look I’ve spent six months trying to forget.

Oh, that look.

I take a sip of water. His eyes follow the glass to my mouth, and when I set it down, he’s still looking at me. There’s something almost indecent about the way he does it, considering we’re sitting in a restaurant surrounded by people trying to enjoy their dinner.

I glance down at the menu, although I’ve been staring at the same section for several minutes without successfully reading a single word.

His phone lights up on the table. A woman’s name appears on the screen, followed by the beginning of a message.

I recognize her name immediately. She’s a regular contributor to his Instagram comments section. Primarily heart eyes. Occasionally fire emojis. Nothing of literary significance.

I avert my eyes.

I’ve spent considerable time consulting tarot cards to find out what this man is doing, but suddenly I find myself deeply committed to respecting his privacy. I’ve already picked out my underwear, and I’ll be damned if I let a little information ruin my evening.

He says something, and I look up from the menu. I answer him, but neither of us makes much effort to continue the conversation. He’s looking at me again. Not casually, either. His eyes move over my face and settle on my mouth before returning to mine.

I hold his gaze.

He smiles a little. I give him a smirk.

There’s an entire table between us, and I’m becoming increasingly irritated by its existence. I shift in my chair, cross my legs, uncross them. He notices. Of course he notices. The corner of his mouth lifts again, and I have to resist the urge to reach across the table and grab him by his shirt.

We’ve stopped talking altogether. I’m aware of the restaurant around us, the conversations at nearby tables, the occasional clatter of dishes, but I couldn’t tell you what anyone is saying. He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. I do the same. Neither of us breaks eye contact.

Someone clears his throat.

Our waiter is standing beside the table, pen in hand, waiting to take our order. Neither of us seems to know how long he’s been there.

We give him our orders, and I tell him we’re going to step outside to take some pictures. But as soon as we leave the restaurant, it becomes clear that neither of us is particularly interested in photography.

Getting ourselves situated requires some negotiation. My dress was not designed for climbing into the backseat of a car, and there’s barely enough room for both of us.

I nearly pop the button off his pants trying to get them unbuttoned, preparing to show him exactly what he's been missing. There's no way for me to get on my knees in here, which is becoming increasingly frustrating.

Before I can figure out an alternative, he pulls me toward him and kisses me. I stop fighting with his pants and turn my attention to his mouth. He kisses me again, slower this time, one hand against the back of my neck. I reach for him, and for a few moments, the cramped backseat stops being my primary concern.

A car passes through the parking lot, its headlights sweeping across the windows.

We freeze. I look at him. He looks at me. And we start laughing.

He rests his forehead against mine until the car passes. Then he kisses me again, and we get right back to what we were doing.

At some point, my head hits the window hard enough that I briefly reconsider the location of our reunion. Briefly.

Frankly, six months of inactivity should have cost him at least one star. Unfortunately, he’s just earned all five back, which is particularly impressive considering the logistical challenges of having sex in the backseat of a Honda Civic.

We return to the restaurant with my dress not entirely zipped and my hair looking considerably less intentional than it did when I left the house. My head hurts a little from its repeated encounters with the backseat window.

Our food has arrived.

It is cold.

I ask the waiter if he could possibly heat it up. He looks at us for a moment before taking the plates. Whatever he suspects about our extended absence is between him and God.

I eat my dinner. It’s excellent.

Afterward, we head to his apartment.

His place looks exactly the way I remember it, right down to the bachelor décor that suggests he has never once stood in a store and wondered whether a decorative throw pillow might improve his quality of life.

He turns on a basketball game. I sit beside him on the couch, pretending to follow what’s happening on the screen. I offer an opinion about a play that I’m fairly certain reveals I have no idea what I’m talking about.

Then he pauses the television.

The room goes quiet so abruptly that I can hear the low mechanical hum of the apartment.

He turns toward me. I turn toward him.

For a moment, neither of us says anything. He moves a little closer. His eyes move from mine to my mouth, then lower, and I give him the kind of bedroom eyes that would make Tyra Banks proud.

Here we go. Round two.

I could kiss him myself, of course. But I intend to enjoy being pursued for at least ninety seconds.

His eyes drop to my mouth again. He leans in. I let the last small distance belong to him.

His hand finds my waist, and I pull him closer. The basketball game is still paused behind us, and I have officially retired from pretending to care about it.

I kiss him again.

He interrupts things to put a blanket underneath us. Good, because I’m prepared to make a mess, and professional upholstery cleaning is not in my budget.

Several hundred calories later, I’m trying to catch my breath. My Apple Watch thinks I’ve gone for a run. I beg to differ. This is a life well lived. I ask him if he can get me some water. He points toward the kitchen. Apparently, he’s off duty. It’s fine. He’s earned a break.

Later, he tells me I don’t have to go home. I can stay if I want.

Naturally, I want.

I follow him to the bedroom. I bring my glass of water with me, just in case he's going for gold tonight.

The sheets are navy blue.

I have a theory that men are issued navy blue sheets and flat pillows at the same government facility where they receive a single bath towel and their first television remote.

His pillow is almost entirely decorative. I put my head on it and immediately become aware of the distance between my neck and the mattress. It's an impressive distance considering there is technically a pillow occupying the space.

I am delighted.

He falls asleep quickly. I remain awake for a while, listening to his breathing and nearly passing out trying to synchronize mine with his. Every time I think I've found the rhythm, he changes it. I try again.

My arm is trapped beneath me at an increasingly uncomfortable angle. I could move it, obviously, but that would involve shifting my weight and potentially waking him. I don't want to disturb the atmosphere. I've spent an extraordinary amount of time arranging to be in this bed, and I intend to remain a pleasant guest.

My phone is on seven percent. I don't have a charger with me. The one beside his bed isn't compatible with my phone, and I briefly consider asking whether he has another one. But he's asleep, and I don't want to wake him over something as unromantic as battery life.

I should wash my face. My makeup has been on for an unreasonable number of hours, and one of my lashes is beginning to lift. I consider getting up, locating the bathroom, and seeing whether he owns anything that could reasonably be used to remove mascara.

Instead, I close my eyes.

There is a man whose company I've thoroughly enjoyed asleep beside me, my arm is going numb, my phone is dying, and my neck is going to require professional attention in the morning.

And I am perfectly content.

His alarm goes off before sunrise. He doesn't move.

I open one eye and look at him. Surely he heard that. The alarm continues for a few seconds before stopping, and he remains asleep.

I decide to remain asleep as well.

Not actually asleep, of course. But I don't want him to think I've been lying awake for hours, enjoying the ridiculous satisfaction of being here. So I continue sleeping with tremendous concentration.

Another alarm goes off.

He reaches for his phone, silences it, and returns to sleep.

I keep my eyes closed.

The room gradually becomes lighter. I can hear the faint sounds of the city waking up outside. At some point, he rolls over, and I lie there enjoying the return of circulation.

Eventually, it becomes clear that I should get up. I make my way back to the living room to retrieve my clothes. My dress is on the floor beside the couch, and I have to look around for my underwear, which has apparently traveled farther than I anticipated.

In the bathroom, I examine myself in the mirror. My mascara has migrated beneath my eyes, one of my lashes is lifting, and my hair looks nothing like it did when I arrived. I make a halfhearted attempt to fix it with my fingers, press the loose lash back into place, and decide there's not much else to be done.

I look like I've had a wonderful time.

I leave his apartment shortly after six in the morning.

Chicago is barely awake. A few people are walking their dogs. Someone is jogging. A woman in sneakers passes me on the sidewalk, looking prepared for whatever respectable activity requires a person to be outside at this hour.

I am wearing last night’s heels and a bodycon dress that should never be seen in daylight.

My makeup has seen better days. I've slept approximately twenty-three minutes. My feet are beginning to remind me that these shoes were designed for looking good while sitting down, and I'm missing an earring.

I pass a woman walking her dog. She looks at me, and for a moment I wonder if she knows.

I hope she does.

I have just had spectacular sex, a very good dinner, and an objectively terrible night’s sleep. The dress may have survived the evening, but my neck certainly hasn’t.

A few blocks later, I approach a familiar mosaic painted across a white brick wall. It reads Welcome to Chicago, in enormous letters outlined in blue, red, and gold, decorated with little pieces of reflective material that catch the morning light.

I’ve taken pictures here before. In fact, I’ve taken enough pictures here after spending the night at this man’s apartment that the mosaic has become something of a recurring character in my Instagram stories. My followers know what it means when I post a picture of this wall. They don’t need a location tag or an explanation.

My phone is on one percent.

I stop in front of the mosaic, pull out my phone, and take a picture. I post it to my story, along with a screenshot of Drake’s Blue Tint lyrics:

Look who I’m fucking again.

Post.

Then I continue to my car. I kick off my heels, plug my phone into the charger, and turn my location sharing back on.

By the time I’ve settled into the driver’s seat, my Instagram story already has several views. One of them is my best friend.

She has replied.

SMH.

I stare at the message for a moment. Then I open our conversation and begin typing.

In my defense, I had a good time.