All Sorts of Trouble
Dear Readers,
As I have been recounting my woeful dating tales for you, I have become very aware of this strange palpitation within my chest. As I write {er...type} these things, it feels very much like I am reliving these events all over again. I have been feeling dizzy and slightly nauseous. {Perhaps these are symptoms of the flu?} Some of these stories sicken me, as I am sure they will sicken you. During my extreme Siren days, I was the definition of instability and inconstancy. These things are difficult for me to write. If my character wasn't anonymous, you would never find these things pasted on the internet. However, I have discovered that although often nauseating, these entries have proven to be quite therapeutic. A final purge if you will. I am not scrounging for your pity. I do not want that at all. I write these things so that you may be wiser than I have been. And so that those of you, who like me, have been somewhat less Elizabeth Bennet-esque may feel that you are not alone and you are not hopeless. Am I dramatic enough for you?
Now for Mr. Tennis. This one's a real doozie.
Everything that happened between Mr. Tennis and myself seems purely chance. Except chance is often dismissed as a non-existent force. Nothing happens by chance. Does it?
One lovely summer weekend, a friend and I went out of town to visit my sister. Mr. Tennis was at my sister's house when we arrived. I attempted to ignore him the whole evening. He was handsome. Very much so. He was flirty {towards my friend}. He was cocky. He was loud. He was annoying.
The next day was different. We had unexpectedly become chums. Before I had time to register and calculate the implications of this new-found friendship, our hands were interdigitated. We began spending every moment together.
"Stay away from him," my sister warned. "He's just a player."
And as rebels often do, I completely ignored her advice and went on my merry way.
The next evening, Mr. Tennis, myself and a group of friends were watching a movie. Mr. Tennis and I were snug on the couch. Common sense began to creep into the darkest recesses of my brain and enlighten my mind. I needed to stop this before I did anything completely idiotic. "Let's go get a drink of water," I whispered in his ear. He complied. My dear friend who only wanted to save me from myself followed us, with the excuse that she needed some water as well. Back to the movie. Escape tactic #2: "I really need to talk to you. Can we go upstairs?" Again compliance.
Once I knew that we were alone, I poured out my feelings to him. The logical side of my feelings at least. "What are we doing Mr. Tennis {of course I didn't refer to him as Mr. Tennis then}? This isn't going to go anywhere. I'm leaving tomorrow and you're staying here. The chances are not likely that we'll be around each other much. What are we doing?" Then he did the lowest thing any man could ever do to a woman like myself. He had the audacity to get sad! He looked at the floor in a contemplative you're-breaking-my-heart sort of way. The beast could make a rat feel sorry for him. I was the rat. I inched forward and hugged him, feeling truly sorry to have hurt him, but relieved I had spoken my peace. Then he began to kiss me. And goodness knows I'm not the sort that has the ability to think clearly while being kissed.
"Will I ever see you again?" he begged. "Please say that I will. I care for you so much."
All bets were off. Common sense was out the window. I assured him that we would work something out. Except. I was dating Mr. Cowboy. And of course, I did not tell Mr. Tennis that.
"You let him kiss you!?" my sister yelled when I told her. "I'm going to kill him." Oh how I wished someone would kill me instead. I was going home. Mr. Cowboy was waiting for me.
I broke up with Mr. Cowboy. I thought he hated me. I semi-dated Mr. Tennis. I thought he truly cared for me. Our relationship was altogether undefined. We emailed. Sometimes we called. Once in a blue moon I would "visit my sister" and see him. Mr. Tennis did come up for New Years. I thought that was the start of a real relationship. He was flirty. He was affectionate. He was endearing. Mr. Tennis gave me a necklace. Doesn't that sort of thing mean, "You're my girlfriend," or something to that affect? At least I thought that's what it meant. A day after he left, Mr. Tennis told me he wasn't interested in dating anyone at the time. He had some things he needed to "figure out." It was just a break. Nothing permanent.
I was understanding. I was also determined. Determined to be loyal to someone. I wore that necklace everyday for one whole year as a symbol of my devotion. {You don't have to tell me, I know I'm stupid}.
One year later, I transferred schools to the same city as Mr. Tennis. {Not purely for the sake of being near him. It was just time to transfer schools}. Then Mr. Tennis felt a little more obligated to tell me the truth. {Because I was too oblivious to see for myself}. "Coquette, I'm sort of dating someone else. You've been such a good friend to me, but now is the time for a new chapter in our lives. I just don't see you as anything other than as a friend. Can we still be friends?"
Yes.
I asked him if he actually ever had feelings for me. "Not at first. I just wanted to kiss you. I did like you after a while though..."
Thanks Mr. Tennis. You really are the quite the charmer aren't you?
You know what they say, Hindsight really is 20/20. When I look back, I can see how idiotic I was. My stalwart thoughts of devotion were for a guy who didn't even feel the same as I did. Not even remotely.
But you know, not even the best of Jane Austen's characters fall for the right guy at first. Elizabeth finds Mr. Wickham to be captivating. Anne entertains thoughts of marrying Mr. Elliot. Marianne more than falls for Willoughby. But in the end, they end up with the really great guys. Mr. Darcy. Captain Wentworth. Colonel Brandon. I take comfort in the fact that though sometimes brief {or not so brief in my case} moments of stupidity can lead to the happiest of endings.
Con Amor,
The Coquette
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