Sometimes I think that my loneliness is like a distant sound that I feel more than I hear, like thunderstorms on the horizon.
It’s funny what makes you miss a man in your life. But this is one thing that hits me harder than most: his shoes by the door. This pair of boots belongs to an extraordinarily decent guy. So I know he’ll never come within a thousand miles of me. I think I must give off some sort of scent that warns away guys with a sweet nature, like a herd shies away from a wounded member. Now that I think about it, that’s probably just big theoretical talk to cover the fact that I’m woefully unobtrusive. I don’t really attract enough romantic notice for guys to shy away from me. "Is that actually worse," I stop to ask myself and I have no answer.
From time to time I pass through a hallway in the apartment building where Boots makes his home – and this little domestic scene greets me there. For some obscure reason it presses on the bruise of my loneliness in such a painful way. A caption for this springs up in my consciousness: a man lives here. Believe me, there’s nobody’s boots outside my door. My life is completely devoid of the contaminating presence of someone else. The hermetically sealed sterility of my existence is stifling.
On the outside you might take Boots for a classic of his type, all Oakleys and Levi’s with a hefty dollop of team merchandise. Shame on you for not looking more closely. Boots always flashes a killer smile and nods his gratitude when I hold the door while he busily carries in a pizza and groceries, chatting with his girlfriend on the phone. It is an adorable grin, rising along with a decisive uptick of his head, leaving me to imagine how grateful he might be for services more profound than holding the door. Sigh. Concerned priests warn that an idle mind is the devil’s workshop. Heck, I don’t just entertain licentious thoughts. When it comes to Boots, I invite them in for a pitcher of margaritas and a pay-per-view.
Boots glows when you notice the effort he puts into something, reavealing a balky earnest pleasure in your attention. He has sweetly vertical guy handwriting that I cannot bear to heave into the recycling bin and the loose-limbed careless physicality of young men. He is a reminder that real men – because they have nothing to prove by flaunting a bogus dignity – can be endearingly goofy with children. Do other people form attachments out of such unlikely constellations of attributes? When he unexpectedly uses the word “yummy” in a boyish conversational aside, I simply want to marry him, promising to love, honor and prepare chocolate mousse ‘til death do us part.
When he’s embarrassed, Boots blushes a wildly appealing Persian red like the shadow of a rose window falling across his tawny skin. Even below his collarbone you can see the intensifying hue stain his otherwise flawless flesh. (It delights me that I have had the occasion to discover this.) Add to this the fact that he says my name with a husky rolling center and I am a fallen woman. Did I mention that he sings, does laundry and the dishes? All this while remaining blessedly non-Oprahfied, retaining his right to curse, drive trucks and worship the widescreen.
I know women who have come to mistrust men after being mauled by one who was wantonly cruel and manipulative. I cannot help but give more men the benefit of the doubt after meeting Boots and stealing a glimpse of how much sweeter and safer the world could be standing next to him for the rest of my life. Ti adoro.
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