And then, there was Ian.

Our introduction was kinetic. I still can feel the energy, the tingles, which ran from my hands down to my toes, of our first meeting six years ago.

He was thirteen years my senior, an Amherst College scholar, a brilliant writer, and his salt-and-pepper hair made his presence insatiable.

Two years passed, enduring brief and intemittent meetings.
And then, he emailed me. 

Ian expressed he wanted to meet me out for coffee, he needed to speak to me. His email was short and to the point, making his message seem all the more urgent. The next day, we meet at a small, quintessential bookstore turned coffee house.

As I sipped my coffee, the impossible, the unbelievable, the never-happens-to-me happened to me.  This man, whom I have been intoxicated with for the past two years by mere hair and wit, announced he was ending his unsuccessful marriage of ten years to feel alive again, feel companionship again, feel romance again – because he had met me.

This was the impossible, the unbelievable, the never-happens-to-me because up until this point, we had never dated, never had unscrupulous, secret encounters (not counting the many in my mind). We had been friends. That’s it.

Destiny is not always fate, but fate is often destined.

Four years and one hell of a romance later, we are still living in separate spaces, enjoying brief and intermittent meetings, but, we are like we started, friends.

***
I love you, Baby Doll.