The Russian lover and I were lying in bed the other night, wondering how March had gone by so fast. And then we remembered that this is our anniversary-ish time of year, and it was about this time three years ago that I tumbled into his bed for the first time. That night we both thought that maybe it would be the last time, as well. It turned out to be the longest one-night stand he's ever had and as for me, well, my first attempt at a one-night stand turned into a three-year love affair with no signs of stopping.
I wasn't looking for love when I met the Russian lover. I was looking for a distraction -- for fun, and sex. I was looking for a long break from the emotional abuse wrought by men who believe in grand things like destiny without having any concept of fundamental things like integrity. I craved superficial and reliable, a dildo with conversation skills and social graces. My expectations were low to nonexistant.
They were so low, in fact, that the first time I got off the phone with him I burst into tears. Because he told me he was going to call me at 11:30, and at 11:30 my phone rang. "I know it's late, but I made dinner. Come over." After spending the past year and a half being strung along like the shadow of an afterthought, I'd forgotten what it felt like to reach out to a man and have him be there. I'd forgotten what it felt like to be told "I will" by a man, and have those words be true.
The Russian lover does not make me any promises, and I don't care. He is the only man I have ever met in my life who doesn't need to.