This is the expanded version of my brief 630 am omfgwtf post.
I was sitting on a sofa in the most elegant/douchiest bar in town. It’s a rabbit warren of interconnected rooms in the bottom of a chic hotel tower with many floors of condos. It’s a scene. It’s a scene we love.
Every time I go there, I see people I know. LP, a gaming CEO, corporate lawyers. It’s filled with elegant men — some in suits, some in very casual clothes — but it’s money, as the drinks are ridiculously expensive. $15 cocktails.
Next to it, or rather built into it, is a concert venue.
So, RA, my gorgeous girlfriend with whom I share everything, is sitting next to me. A man trying to win her heart is in a chair across from us, bankrolling this portion of our evening.
I am drinking water, as I’d had two glasses of champagne earlier at an historic hotel for a holiday party, and I knew the chef would be meeting me in two hours when he finished service at his restaurant.
Stage set . . .
I glance up, and I see BV walk on the walkway connecting the rooms about 30 feet from me.
BV, the man who told me he loved me, and then left with little contact for more than two weeks.
My darling Bon Vivant.
He was in typical BV attire: a long-sleeved tshirt with some design on it (this was a concert t) and jeans.
I freaked out.
I just grabbed RA’s arm and said: “it’s BV!”. She did her best to calm me. I was … Angry.
Flash of anger coursing through my veins. All I could think was “what the fuck is wrong with you!”. And then I took out my phone.
Here’s the thing: I am heartbroken and dying, but I am a practical girl who lives in a social world and I know that I have to signal him that I am there.
My thought is that if I tell him I am there then he and whatever girl he’s on a date with can leave quietly and find another fucking bar.
So I text him.
And then I feel like I am going to throw up.
I go to the bathroom, knowing quite well I may see him. The bathrooms are on a unisex hallway.
Still I go. Intending to go to the bathroom fix my face, and not throw up.
I pull myself together and walk out and I see him 10 feet ahead of me. I call his name “Bon!” but he doesn’t hear me. He looks a unsteady on his feet.
I swing my purse into him to tap him. He stops. He looks … Happy
Well, that’s unexpected.
I hug him lightly. I tap him on the back, the idea of a hug more than an actual hug.
He is, unsurprisingly, infuriated.
“What the fuck is that bullshit?!”
I said, look, I am not trying to interrupt or interfere.
He’s mystified and angry.
[Here’s what I am missing . . .
BV loves me. He keeps up with what’s going on. The words he says and the actions he takes are meaningful.
So we’ve been apart while he was home healing and recharging, but it’s all good because we are connected.]
I backpedal a bit as this all starts to dawn on me and I hug him tightly. He says, hey, I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. And I say oh I want to introduce you to my friend.
I walk him over to RA and friend and they meet and exchange pleasantries.
He’s doing quite well as I know he’s high as a fucking kite on hallucinogens.
We walk outside to see his friend K. BV had bought concert tickets for the big show for K for his birthday.
As we walk down the sidewalk, we catch up quickly.
The trip was amazing and fulfilled all of our hopes: he’s recharged. He’s healthy. He’s good. He’s so excited and tells me he has so much to tell me.
And he’s looking at me with such joy and affection and it’s awesome.
Every single thing he wanted to get out of the trip, he did. It was perfect and he was so loving and grateful and happy and relaxed.
He calls K over and I make K hug me though he doesn’t remember who I am until later when BV tells him.
We exchange show-related pleasantries for a couple of minutes, and then I hug BV goodbye tightly and we kiss and then hug again as he looks at me and says quietly: “don’t ever fucking do that to me again.” It was cold and direct.
I apologized again.
He also says warmly they’ll call me when they’re out.
I walk back into the hotel and the bar, reeling a bit from this 15 minute exchange.
I sit down and I tell RA and her friend the epic tale of how we met. RA tells me how handsome she thinks BV is, but that he looks far different than she’d expected. She has seen photos of him, but he was shorter than she expected and older-looking.
That’s a funny thing about BV, which I discussed with him later, he looks significantly older than he is. He’s 31. He looks about 36. A well-maintained 36, but 36. I look younger than I am. (In fact, the chef said to me “I thought you were 30, 33 tops.”) Between the two of us, BV and I look about the same age, rather than 10 full years apart.
I realize as I tell them the epic tale of the Planner and the Bon Vivant that we have to get the fuck out of this elegant bar.
The chef is texting me about where to meet and I know full well that once the show ends in 2 hours, BV is likely to return to this bar.
Where I will be on a date with the super-hot chef.
Um, yeah, bad news.
The difficulty I just had with BV was based on the fact that I never think we’re in a relationship when we’re apart. Meaning that when I saw him walk through, I assumed he was on a date. I treated him so distantly because I was trying to respect him and his life and not make things awkward for him and his date.
He always thinks we’re in a relationship, so he could not understand why I acted as I did. And he was, reasonably, angry.
RA, her suitor and I decide to head off to a restaurant to grab some food. I’d had a cocktail by this point, one amusingly titled happenstance, which is a negroni with orange vodka and champagne. And food would be important to maintain my balance.
And my upcoming date with the chef now minutes away.