It was dark, and wet and miserable, which suited me perfectly. I drove with a friend through the familiar streets, and I tried for light hearted gossip even though we both knew that I was angsting. We peered at letterboxes, trying to figure out how close we were.

Three . . . Five . . Nine? Did we miss it? I pull over, and get out.

I walk down to Seven, and stand in the driveway.

It looks like a nice enough place, an ugly villa in semi-good nick, and there are lights on. His cars not there, though. It’s Wednesday, so he’s probably at netball. I frown a little (it still irks that he’s still playing netball with MY team. I insisted, at the time, that I leave instead of he, and now it just seems silly that I did). Still, it’s good that he’s not here, I didn’t want to run into him anyway.

I hold the mail that’s not mine and eye the letter box, and I’m torn. If I leave these here, then please please please let this be the end of this, please stop bothering me with details he should have already taken care of, please get out of my life. And then the other side, if I leave the letters here, there will be no more reasons to send an email, to talk, if just about nothing, no reasons to connect . . . and I miss him.

I stop myself before I can get further with that thought. I don’t need the past.

That particular past is a bit like a cigarette. It’s bad for you, and it makes your breath and hair and clothes smell, and you get that horrible smokers cough. And everyone gets down on you for smoking, they do, because its disgusting and bad for you, and you know it, and they know it. But you crave the nicotine, so you smoke the cigarettes anyway. You feel relief, but its dirty, and tastes bad.

He was like that. Encourgaging horrible behaviour and disparaging remarks and a miserable, lonely existence.

I don’t need that past. I don’t want that past.

I drop the letters in the box, and walk away, quickly, back to the car out of the rain.

We drive on, and I spent the rest of the night in good company, with friends who are brilliant and make me laugh. With boys who like me, and tell me so. With people who bring out the best in me, not the worst. With people who would rather hold me up, than let me fall. With people who care about me. People who actually care.

I’m learning to let go, slowly. And its hard. But I wish I didn’t have to learn. I wish I already had.

I hate this part of the game. The awkward texting, facebook stalking, delving for details, trying to understand and figure out if this is something to continue or drop, trying to find footing, where he stands, where I stand . . .

It was easier the night before. When the music was too loud to talk, when everything we said was by touch, with a look and a smile. He had these gorgeous brown eyes, I remember, and a cute grin. He seemed nice enough, treated me with respect, didn’t look at the other girls while I was around. Seemed honourable enough. We danced alot, and it was nice to feel wanted, it was nice to have this without cheapening it, without ruining the simplicity of what it was with words.

But now, in the days that follow, the details are slowly coming out, my life, his life, what he does, where I live, his history, and mine. And at first it was amusing (you’re how old?! You do what? Ha, me too!) And then we get into what are we were looking for, what we want. And then it became complicated (You’re leaving? Forever? Sad face).

It will all come out, eventually. What I want, what I’m doing, and I’d rather do it face to face than screen to screen. I don’t want to hurt his feelings when I tell him I’m not interested in his details. That I just wanted to dance. What I really miss the simplicity of that first night. When it was simple, and easy and the details were unimportant. When the music pumped up through the floor as you moved, when the beat tied you together, when the whats and hows and whys didn’t matter. When all that mattered was the right then and there.

It was just better when the details didn’t complicate things, I think.

I think the last time I was in this situation was when I was second year at uni. When neither I, nor the boy of the moment felt comfortable enough taking the other back to our parents places. So we drove around the city, windows down, music blaring. We’d walk in the dark, hands clasped together, solving the worlds problems in single conversations, convinced that we knew what we were doing, where we were going, what was to come. We were so young, and I want to laugh at how ridiculous we were.

And then I grew up a bit. Instead of wandering the city streets we’d watch tv in bed, because we had our own flats now. No need to sneak out, or find some other place to be together. Converastions grew boring, and became about our days, and bitching about the people in our lives. There weren’t any city sights to be seen. No adventures in the night to be had. No world problems to solve. We’d do laundry, cook dinner, and watch the news. We were settled, and when your settled boring makes you happy.

But I’m not settled, anymore. Adventures keep me busy, and I fall into bed in the early hours of the morning. I’m exploring playgrounds and beaches, and watching the clouds move over the stars. I watch him wander down the waters edge, and laugh when he realises how cold the water is. He invites me to go swimming, and I half consider the possibility. We don’t solve the worlds problems, instead we discuss the people we were, the people we are, the people we might become. We visit the beaches out east, then we eat in the city, and drive through the dark out west.

I think about how I once wanted to be settled. How badly I wanted it. To play happy families and put roots down. Be stable. And then I think about how right now its better that I’m not. That I can walk atop the knee-high fence and feel the night breeze on my face. I think about how nice it is to be frivolous, and spin till I’m dizzy, and swing high on structures meant for the smaller and younger. I think about how nice it is to be in this place, here in the now.

One day, I’ll settle. But today is not that day, and tomorrow there are adventures waiting.

I watch the two boys work, and I think that I could never be in a serious relationship with a bartender. I polish the wine glasses, and I watch them smile, and flirt and call the girls “sweetheart” and the men “sir”. I see a cocktail being made for the two girls leaning over the bar with their long blonde hair and lowcut tops. I wait for the line “a pretty drink for a pretty lady”. I’ve heard it before, and I know it works. It worked on me, once.

I know that it’s unlikely anything will come from it. I know that if I got behind the bar, which I will, once these glasses are polished, I will flirt with the patrons too. It puts more money in the till that way. I’d let them buy me drinks. Another shot on the end, for the pretty bartender with a grin. I know that it’s part of the job to appear available. Whether you actually are or not is up to you at the end of your shift.

I set my wine glass down, and pick up another. But I don’t think I could. Not a serious something. The long hours, and Hospo culture aside, it’s the flirting that would get to me most. I’m jealous like that. I wonder how actors partners do it, whether they justify it with ‘its my job’. And then I think that I’d probably never be in a serious relationship with an actor either. So I shouldn’t worry.

I focus for a bit on a stubborn fingerprint, and then I shake my head. I don’t know who I’m fooling, really. A friend told me recently that it doesn’t matter how cautious I am. How high my walls, how solid my fortress. I won’t be able to stop it, if it’s right. If it’s right, then it doesn’t matter if Prince Charming is a bartender, or an IT geek. A teacher, or a rugby player. It doesn’t matter what he does, really. Because if it’s right, you make it work. You put the effort in, and you do it with a smile on your face with a happy heart. It might not be easy, but if it’s right . . . if it’s right, you do it anyway.

I collect up the glasses, and carry them carefully behind the bar, slotting them into their respective places. Not to worry though. I haven’t met Prince Charming yet, and I’m carefully not looking either. I turn around, ready to greet the next patron, and I lock eyes with a tall, gorgeous twenty-something. I smile, he smiles. He buys a round for his friends, and then a round ‘just for us’. We tip back our shots. Then, with a witty one liner and a smile, he asks for my number. I act all demure, and I blush.

But before I can reply, a bouncy brunette in a short dress slips herself under his arm. I smile, as expected, and fetch her requested drink. I’m pretty sure Prince Charming doesn’t come with bouncy brunettes. Ah well. Teach me right for thinking along those lines anyway.