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Like most of my girlfriends, I have a thing for a man with an accent. Be it British, Irish, Spanish, Italian or Southern, I swoon at the sound of rolling Rs and long vowels; I covet the unfamiliar idioms; and I crave clever regional pet names. Perhaps it is the element of the unknown, something foreign and therefore unpredictable. Perhaps different is good. Whatever the reason is, my girlfriends and I have a common denominator: men with accents.
I used to go around with a man from North Carolina. We met on Halloween and he chased me into January before we ever went on a date. I nicknamed him North Carolina, and sometimes NASCAR Guy. He sometimes called me Granola Girl.
On one of our first dates, I was was recovering from being ill. As such, I wasn't in the best of spirits, but I tried to seem interested. Over dinner, he told me about his grandparents, his North Carolina family and how they valued education and how he had never smoked a single tobacco cigarette. After dinner, we went to a piano bar for live music. All in all, it was a good date (8 out of 10); it boosted my doldrum spirits. Meanwhile, he put up with my somewhat obnoxious attempts to be sassy and coy; he even danced with me.
North Carolina surprised me a few weeks later. After a difficult and emotional phone call with an ex, when I found myself crying on my bedroom floor alone and vulnerable, he invited me to come over to be with someone for a while. It was a little step, but he asked me what had me so upset and seemed engaged, listening to what I had to say. He was tender and kind, two qualities that I relish. It wasn't the only time he demonstrated qualities of a good man, but I was a little confused as to what I wanted and when I wanted it.
The last time I saw him face-to-face, he took me out to dinner at one of my favorite restaurants. I had asked him to sweep me off my feet; I was in desperate need of a sign. Sitting and watching him interact with the other people at the bar, I fell for him and I told him that I like him, for what it is worth. I do not know if it was that I was suddenly interested and so he was not. I do not know if the thrill of the chase was gone. I do not know if he was tired of chasing and playing my games. When he left me, he delivered that famous line "I'll call you." And he didn't.
Well, he didn't until a two a.m. drunken call weeks later. He woke me from sleep and I stared at his telephone number, wanting not to answer, but wanting desperately to answer as well. I answered and half-asleep asked, “Why are you calling me?” He didn’t have a real answer, but I wish now that I would have been kinder and said “It is good to hear from you” instead. He left to go home to North Carolina soon after that and I didn't see him again.
Bittersweetly, I think of him often. And fondly. And wonder what he is doing, how he is doing and if he is happy back home, where the weather is in the 60s. I wonder too, if he thinks of me. And if he thinks of me fondly. And if he wonders what I am doing, how I am doing and if I am happy.
There will always be these people, these North Carolina people, who walk in and out of my life and I wonder about for ever more. Maybe the timing just wasn’t right when we met and I couldn’t see past my own nose and discriminators and stupid rules. Maybe all of those things are my shield against taking a chance once and for all.
• "A Single Serving" appears second and fourth Mondays every month, exclusively in Lumino Magazine. E-mail Melissa at m.koss@yahoo.com. Photo of Melissa by Anne Coloso. |
Written by Guest on 2006-12-12 17:26:15
 - That was so romantic. Too bad he doesn't come back |
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