Towards Life!

Sometimes, you don't have anything to do; anyone to share; and then you notice a couple - a cute couple. You make up a story, a story that has been told many times before; you narrate it again, because you wish the ending were different!

For five and a half years, I have tried everything I know to make my relationship with m work. But, finally, it’s apparent that there is nothing to be done. It is finally, actually, over.

When my marriage ended years ago, it was a maelstrom of emotions. Anger. Desperation. Sadness. Pain. But, I survived – stronger than before, and with very few scars, and, remarkably, I think, an amazing lack of bitterness.

During the five and a half years there were times when we were on the verge of ending things, and one of us would say, “but it would be such a waste of a great story.” it was a joke, of sorts. A way to break the tension, or defuse the situation, or just stop the “serious” conversation so we didn’t have to talk about ending things any more.

The “story” was a reference to the story of how we met. It is one of those questions that is always asked of couples, “So, how did you guys meet?” and, we had such a great answer for that one. We “met cute” as they say in Hollywood. A scenario reminiscent of sappy little romantic movies. Years of near misses, and, eventually, a hit.

And so, for the last time, I will tell the story of how we met.

About nine years ago, I worked for TCS, and my office was in the rotunda of the beautiful capitol building. Having an office in such an amazing setting had one major drawback – no onsite parking. So, capitol employees had to park at a remote lot and ride a shuttle bus that dropped employees at various office buildings in the complex.

I saw him occasionally on the bus. A tall, blonde guy. I thought he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen in real-life. I would catch myself actually staring at him – but never working up the courage to speak. My mood was markedly different on the days I saw him on the bus – I had a huge smile plastered on my face when I waltzed into the office on those days. It became a joke in my office – “oh, she saw the guy on the bus!”

He came to be known as “bus guy” in my office. I sustained significant ribbing.

Eventually, I noticed his car, which happened to have a license plate with three letters on it. Aha! in addition to giving me a clue each day as to whether or not he’d already caught an earlier shuttle, this gave me a lead as to bus guy’s true identity – his initials! Using the state employee telephone directory, I learned bus guy’s name, where he worked, even his office phone number! But, true to form, I did nothing. The extent of my efforts was to look for his car in the morning to see if he had already taken the shuttle. If I didn’t see it, I would wait, hoping he’d arrive and I could take the shuttle with him.

I eventually left TCS, without ever speaking to him. Several years passed. I had a new career. A boyfriend.

One day, as I walked through my office, I noticed a familiar-looking man sitting in our lobby. Unable to place his face, I asked a co-worker, “whose guy is that in the lobby?”

One of my friends answered, “Oh, that’s my friend, m. we’re having lunch today.”

“He looks really familiar to me, but I just can’t place him,” I answered.

“Well, maybe you can figure it out tonight – he’s going out for drinks with all of us after work,” she said on her way out the door.

That evening, after several drinks, it dawned on me: it was bus guy! How could I not have recognized him – my dream guy!

As I made my way to the bar for another round, I found myself standing beside him. He turned to look at me and said, “you know, you look really familiar to me.”

“Oh,” I said, “I know where you know me from. You work at the capitol. You drive a black Honda city with your initials on the license plate.”

Although I am sure that it wasn’t the case, it seemed that everything ground to a screeching halt at that moment. I am sure there wasn’t a sound in the bar.

He stared at me.

“um, excuse me. I have to go.” and I grabbed my drink and high-tailed it to the other side of the bar.

Words like “stalker” and “restraining order” bounced through my mind as I drowned my embarrassment in my glass.

“Smooth move, ex-lax,” the seventh-graders in my head taunted.

I made my way to the bar for yet another drink. When I turned, I found myself face to face with him again.

“Listen,” he started. “About what you said a little while ago. um, there’s something I should probably say….”

“Oh, god,” I stammered. “Listen, you probably think I am some sort of nutcase…”

“Actually,” he interrupted, “what I was going to say is…well, I was just wondering if you still drive that white Maruti?”

He smiled.

And then, there was no sound in the bar again.

As time passed, we learned of our long-running series of near misses; that we were “this close” to meeting each other about a dozen different times. That we were at the same parties, or the same concerts, or we knew the same people.

And, so it began. I always thought it was destiny -- that “hit” after all those near misses; that we were supposed to meet and end up together.

Now, five a half years later, I look back and wonder…what if it was the misses that were destiny.