Sorry It Took So Long
So everything goes well. In fact, it is one of the best dates I’ve ever been on, and it lasts until the next day and still now, Sunday, I am watching it all replay in my mind’s eye.
Maybe it was slow dancing hip to hip to Stan Getz up and down the aisles of the coffeehouse (long after I closed shop for the day, of course). How he kissed my forehead mid-stride, then offered those green eyes again.
Or maybe it was how my muscles were sore the next day from laughing so much. How later, I looked in the mirror and my lips seemed almost split from all that smiling.
It could have been how charming his spontaneous singing was as he made up verses and melodies for no apparent occasion. How in 36 hours I said more than once, “What song is that?” and it wasn’t any song – just his song, and song enough indeed.
Or maybe it was Parker’s constant sense of humor in a large crowd. Example from the Core Show:
“And what do you do?” [random co-worker talking to Parker]
“I’m a ninja.” [co-worker cracks up, conversation ensues, Parker leads the way]
Or perhaps it was his absolute bravery and comfort level with himself. Example from the post-party party:
“I tried something new the other week,” Parker says to the executive director of the Craft School, not knowing that’s whom he is speaking to.
“What’s that?” she says, noticing Parker’s hand in mine, then noticing me, smiling, then returning her attention to Parker.
“Tibetan cave chanting,” [Insert audio recording of throbbing, deep chanting, which Parker demonstrates immediately in a crowd of 300 people. So that within minutes, the executive directors is taking throat tips from Parker, and the two of them tip their chins in the air and expel their gutteral calls. Meanwhile, Wesley appears at my side and says, between laughs, “Does your date know he’s teaching the executive director of Craft School to cave chant?” At which point the director herself interrupts the chanting for a proper introduction, and then the two of the continue in their call.]
It could also have been the fact that he lives in a solar powered yurt with a composting toilet and a wood stove and hot water heater, that over breakfast the next morning we read Rumi and Hafiz to each other, and how he said “Thank you. Yes, thank you. I enjoy your company.”
Or later, just before I left, he turned to me and said, “So the mood just shifted. What’s that hint of sadness?” And how I, bashful that I could be read so easily but humbled all the same, confessed that already I wanted to see him again, which meant that already I was worrying about whether or not I would, which triggered an entire additional series of worries about men who do kind things in the moment but don’t really mean them for the long term, to which I then scolded my own skepticism, to which he tried to understand that bundle of worry but to which mostly he just said, “Don’t worry.”