A Love Story

We meet at my favorite wine bar. He’s sitting at the bar when I arrive, but he’s still wearing his camel trench coat, which I am grateful for because he looks devastatingly handsome in it. It’s not long before he mentions that I seem distracted. I tell him it’s been a weird week, but don’t really want to get into it.

He’s always calm. I’ve never seen him nervous or uncomfortable. Even on our first date. At times, this calm demeanor comes off as disinterested. I can’t tell if the composure or disinterest is what makes me actually want him.

I feel like I can’t, or shouldn’t, tell him about my week. Because it’s more than the week. It’s what a mess my life is, worse, what a mess I am. He doesn’t have anxiety. He never alludes to anything sad in his past. At first that felt fine, it was too soon to speak about that. But as we spend more time together, and text endlessly, my messes come up more and more naturally in conversation. He remains mess-free. I still can’t bring myself to really tell him what’s going on in my life. It’s one thing that he’s not very vulnerable with me; he might not have scars as I do or he doesn’t think it’s appropriate to share at this point, both are fair. Maybe I would feel more comfortable if he was more affectionate or complimentary. But he hasn’t told me how much he likes me, or how beautiful I am, or made any indication that he wants to take it a step further. I’d…