An old lover turned up on my doorstep on Sunday.
There I was minding my own business, watching DVDs while sitting on the couch, when I heard a knock on the screen door and my name, and there he was.
It had been years (literally) since we’d seen each other. Nearly four I think; and there he was.
What on earth did he drop in for? What indeed.
Let’s just say, I don’t flatter myself that he dropped by for my scintillating conversation.
So there I was in my old around-the-house dress standing in the doorway looking at an ex and thinking, what the…?
He’d spruced himself up for the occasion, of course. He looked great. Trim and happy and clearly still thinking of me – he even knew exactly how long it had been since we had last seen each other.
And of course, in true Italian style (because they always know the right things to say), he was terribly charming. It was clear that for him nothing had changed and if I had crooked my little finger he would have been in my bed.
I did not let him in though. I confess I was tempted for a brief moment, but I did not let him in.
I could tell he was just as unavailable as ever. I didn’t have to ask. Although, he of course, asked me if I was married again – the audacity! I told him, not yet. Maybe one day, but not yet.
He asked about my travels and we talked about his work. He gave me his latest business card but I smilingly refused to give him my number.
He understood when I told him that our time together had been lovely but it was done. He is not free and I have moved on.
So I shut the door behind him and smiled to myself.
And then I wondered if I should keep my front door shut in the future and install a peephole to vet all visitors.