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One night, walking home from a friend’s Mexican birthday celebration in Paris, a guy asked me for a light. I didn’t have one. He asked to buy me a drink. I said yes. He asked to see me again during the week, and I said yes.

It was exciting.  It made me feel sexy and powerful. He was into me.  We didn’t really know each other, but we kind of clicked.  I didn’t know if he would be the father of my children or just a guy I met on the street. I never thought further than that drink.

Two months later, I left Paris, and some good memories with him.  To be honest, the most exciting, carefree times were when he was just a handsome stranger, that could have become my everything or a ship passing in the night as they say.  I didn’t worry if I liked him more than he liked me. I never questioned that he was into me, and he showed it.  It was like free fall almost, the childlike joy of jumping into a river or something.

AFter I got to know him a bit, and like the attention he paid me. I started to worry, I started to judge a little bit. I started to calculate the time there was and what could really happen in such a short span. What I do know is, that this guy I never would have searched for in a million years, did make me happy.

And I know I made him happy too.

Sometimes I’ve felt guilty that those first few times we saw each other seem kind of more vivid in my memory and in my experience than the cuddly close times that seem innumerable. He was still a handsome stranger after 2 months, and sometimes he felt like he was mine.

And know it’s over, and I remember all those little annoyances, every way he wasn’t Prince Charming at every moment and wonder if that’s why fate made us part. And then I remember the feeling of goodness that came from him, and how carefree and spontaneous and sweet he was. And I miss him, but with a smile now.

And that handsome stranger is just a phone call away, or an email, but he’s really in a world that’s gone, a place and time that won’t come again. I tasted the sweetness and sadness of life, but the time is done for mourning.

Where do handsome strangers come from? Where do they go? If I had married him and stayed with him forever, would there still be a bit of that white smile in the dark, the features I could just barely make out but that pleased me? I hope so.

I don’t know where he is, or how he’ll appear to me again, but I’m waiting for my handsome stranger. I will greet him with a smile and a laugh as mysterious as time itself.

 

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