Five years ago when I lived on the east coast I used to see a man who lives in New York. We had a year-long whirlwhind romance that included Manhattan and London. He looks just like Matt Damon. He’s young, rich, intelligent, well-travelled, sweet, thoughtful, and oh so sexy, insatiable, and just yummy . . . I moved, and he has married, with children.
Every once in a while we talk over email. I would never see him, married and all. I’ve had it done to me, I couldn’t do it to another. When I told him of my break-up, he was kind and caring, and we’ve been talking here and there. I’ve been feeling quite down as of late and today I needed a pick-me-up in the worst way. He can read me like a book.
When I checked the mail, expecting bills and junk, I found a card from my Matt Damon look-alike, hand-written in what looks like a ten-year-old’s hand:
. . . I hope you are having fun out there, enjoying your new found freedom . . .
I would be lying if I didn’t say that’s it’s made me feel a little melancholy.