Last night, after some delay, I had a second date with Sunday-night Man.
He was again a good date. He had the patience to hang in a loud room with a girl who had no speaking voice. (Yes. Lost on Sunday night. Still gone.) He requested the bartender make me a lemon and brandy hot toddy to soothe my throat, then insisted I have a refill. He recommended dinner choices, then paid for them. He kissed me standing outside my car. He kissed me more sitting inside my car. He was a good kisser.
This all helped me forget for a few hours that, despite multiple exhortations to the contrary, C-2 and I never did see each other this weekend. After 2 days of radio silence, he wrote yesterday to say he had been swamped, was sick, and was sorry. Today, ostensibly, he leaves town for a long time.
This is good, I think. Maybe I'll get on with my life after 9 months of unreliable dithering and frustration. Like how, sometimes, I need to bury the Reeses Pieces at the bottom of the trash to keep from eating the entire bag. Out of reach means out of mind.
(One would hope.)