The Marine is home.
He texted me within his first 24 hours here, asking me to come over and visit. Our houses are only about a mile apart, so I went over, lateish. I said hi to his folks, who know me mostly because his older sister and I hiked a lot on the same mountain his mom hikes. And they remember me from my baby days, and grade school...you get the picture.
We sat on the couch and talked. Or, we tried to talk. I tried to talk. It was almost as bad as conversation the Beat Boxer (who you will meet as soon as Snow White gets her butt back to this state and we can co-write). I know the Marine is quiet by nature, and probably going through some kind of culture shock being back in the USA and being a civilian again, but still. It shouldn't be quite that difficult. I was over there for about an hour and a half, and maybe 30 minutes of that actually was filled with talking - spread out. Sentence, sentence, pause.....question, pause....answer....response....pause....
The only reason that total and complete awkwardness was prevented was because of the presence of the dog. I hate chihuahuas, but having it snuggle in next to my leg provided me with something to pet, therefore keeping my hands from clasping and unclasping, and gave me something to look at besides the wall or constantly making and breaking eye contact with the Marine. The dog loves me now, it got so much attention.
At about 11:30, jetlag was used as an excuse to end the 'chatting,' and I drove home. Not really sure what to make of this. I think he's still interested, but if that's as good as the conversation gets, I am definitely not. Especially not after I've gotten a taste of how good it can be - as shown by the Tenor.
The Tenor kind of has restored my faith in men. I can't keep him, but at least he - and hopefully others like him - do exist. It's reassuring.
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