I have this need to write about him.  I knew I eventually would.  He didn’t appear too thrilled with being my future blog topic.  He knew I was going to write about him because I said I would.

E.K., to me, is impish, immature, and the only grown child I have met with bat like ears.   For the record, I haven’t seen nor talked to him in almost a year.  He made me laugh when at times all I could do was cry.

Laughing is always good.

I liked that he has many female friends.

E.K. for me became a distraction when I needed one.  He is younger than I am.  He is an attorney. He asked me to dinner.  I said yes. 

This is after I vowed never to date another attorney.

I learned to never say never—-once again.

It helped that he looked like a miniature form of Jason Bateman.  It helped he had a cool car. 

I learned he likes expensive watches, cigars and restaurants.  He looks like a man who drinks cognac.   I learned he has an affinity for hot tubs, boobies and loose women. 

There are reasons he is single with no children.   He says he is perfectly happy.  That is the beauty of it.  That is the beauty of being E.K.

He has such a beautiful huge home.  I think it is wasted just on him. 
I think it should have a beautiful wife.  I think it should have children running though it.

E.K. has a maid that comes once a week to clean this empty house.  I really don’t see how echos of a surround sound stereo and T.V create dust.  He chooses to work from his home.  No co-workers to laugh or word spar with.

This is all O.K.  Apparently he makes lots and lots of money.  This makes up for it.

I see him as scared, alone, and trapped.  I see a grown frat boy with a thick head of hair.  It’s all about him, the loud music and that weekend party.  I know he likes to fly different places to check out the girl action, the music, and the beer.  E.K. likes to gamble and to watch strippers.  He likes Jimmy Buffet and on occasion to smoke pot.  He talks smart and fast.  I liked his manly giggle.

E.K. in the public view is not cheap.  He is high class.  He always opens that car door.  He always leaves big tips.  He always pays. 

After a few weeks of time spent I see polish wear off.  I decide I don’t really care for his shortness.  I don’t feel free to wear my heels.  I find that he stocks cheap beer.  I find the cool car is really only a dog and pony show.  He has this incessant worry someone is conspiring to key it.

I find my questions of what he is doing, going or thinking bounce off a rim. 

I discover his master bath could bathe a baby elephant. His secret confession (one of many) is that he never filled up that tub.

It should of at least bathed (at one time or another) a beautiful naked woman.  They should have splashed in that tub and made a huge soap and water mess. 

I feel sorry for the tub.  

He would send me texts late at night when his other Bond girls were not available or busy.  I would be in writer’s mode.  It would be late. 

Sometimes I would say yes. 

Sometimes I would say no. 

Sometimes I just ignore his texts. 

Maybe I amused him with my thinking and odd topics.  I am not really sure what he found so attractive.  It was so apparent he wasn’t interested in a relationship.  It was so apparent I was so very heart broke.

So this idea of “us” not being an “us” is becoming a whole new concept—I churn it over in my brain.  I see it’s advantages.  I recognize the disadvantages. 

I discuss all of this with Amy. 

I have visions of moving in his king size bed. 

I think maybe we should make it move across his oak wood floor.

I don’t really understand this world folding out before me.  This logic is new to my brain.   It’s like hiking the grand canyon for the very first time.

I determine I might be up for an E.K. break.  This is after an episode of weeks of the professor gang. This group of highly intelligent men who discuss cave diving, spiders, corpses, and anything dealing with life science.  One fancied the thought of me.  I liked his mind and his books.  Upon my refusal to even submit to a kiss—I was kicked out of the book club.

The book title that week is so fitting and ironic:  The Winter of Our Discontent.

(I love Steinbeck)

I framed the book cover and it hangs on my wall.

I refuse to return this professor’s book— like I refused his kiss.


This is a point where I really am getting tired of men.  The concept of them.  What they want.  What they don’t want.  Their words don’t match their actions.  Their actions don’t match their words.



Then I meet E.K.  Or did E.K. meet me?

This man-boy who makes it clear he hates to read for fun.  This younger boy toy who only wants to take me out.  He likes the concept of a red-headed Bond girl. 

He wants to take me to a strip club. 

There is not going to be any permanence.  We know this.  I am too heartbroken to offer anything but.  He has no interest in linking himself to me for any long haul.

I like riding in the car.
So after my past experience of a hopeful something— I was considering taking this nothing and just running with it.   It is Pamplona and I have this opportunity to run with the bulls.  I want to wave a red scarf.   I want to see where this small passage it going to take me.

E.K.’s honesty is like rain.  I love it.  I love the smell of it.  

I love our random topics of conversations that flow like sangrias.  I really do enjoy this nothingness.  This slice of his company.

E.K. is a master litigator.  He has this way of interrogation where you just start divulging and he knows if you give him bullshit answers.  He is funny and so very non judgmental.  He shows me pieces of his personality with no hesitation.  I see all of his ugly parts. 

He shows me deal breakers—because there is never going to be any deal.

We didn’t have a relationship.  We did have a relationship.

In an evening it sours.  I see him snotty mad.  I am late (I am always usually late) for a date.  He was waiting for me.  This thought I wasn’t coming.   Forty-five minutes is disrespectful.  Even for a nothing.

This miniature good-looking man shows a crack in his sidewalk.  E.K., true to his form,  is a complete ass.

He blurts out: “I thought you stood me up!”

He scrapes his plate during dinner. 

I really wonder if I should get up and leave.
I do that mental check: keys, wallet, money, cell phone

Then days later:  I have a white line in my in-box.   The attorney talk maybe?  I have this feeling they know. I sense they have crossed paths.  There is water cooler talk.  This white line in my in-box.  I forget exactly what it was for.

I am cut raw.  I can’t help but respond. 

I let E.K. know that this man, for me right now, is a something. 
I don’t want to be just an E.K. Bond girl. There still is a possibility I might be this other man’s something.


I too am like rain. 
I can’t keep these things deep in my pocket. 
I can’t play two on one. 
I want to sleep at night. 
I don’t want to mistreat anyone.

Even if I am an E.K. nothing.

His reaction confuses me. 

I can never talk to him or communicate with him ever again. 

I give out that old Charlie Brown <sigh>
I am getting re-kicked out of another book club

Only I don’t have anything to keep or frame

What difference does this make.  I don’t miss him.  I do miss him.

There is really nothing to miss.

But I know, at times, I think about him.