A Married Woman…
I thought I’d tell you all about a married woman I once met. But no it’s not about you. Or you. Or even you. And look before we go any further yes I’ve indeed dallied with those who are otherwise ensconced. But regarding this particular person though. Well that was a little different. Different because – well just because…
You’ve got to remember that my reinvention actually began online. Ok I took it offline – and after Jane it’s all gone pretty well – but I still drift back to the cyberverse from time to time (except do remember folks the “real” world is far more fun to play in once you’re less afraid to try for what you want in “all” areas of your lives).
It was in a familiar chatroom that I encountered her. Oh it was quite some while ago now, on a night where I wasn’t out gallivanting in the west end for a change and I’d already seen every film on cable. I hadn’t been to this site for some time but the old banter that’d served me so well in the old days, when this was all still such a revelation, soon came back to the fingertips (so to speak). We got chatting as part of a number of one-on-one conversations I was having at the time (I was always more the “player” online than off). She didn’t have a particularly provocative username but her profile of “mature professional woman who’s been told she doesn’t look her age…” etc seemed somewhat enticing so I paged her.
Turns out that was the best page of the night. In between some truly banal trade offs with other parties (I’d rather not elaborate) a quite unassuming conversation developed without either party really forcing the issue. It bore no elements of the risqué, the cheeky, the flirtatious or even the downright smutty (unlike others I could mention – like I said I hadn’t lost my touch), and yet I was rather enjoying its refreshing normality instead. So much so that we eventually decided to ditch the vagaries of that chatroom altogether (and I’ve not returned since) and continue our far more illuminating discourse on instant messaging.
Now at this point our pictures appeared and we were both genuinely complimentary of each other’s (indeed hers was most certainly pleasing on the eye), but we didn’t overdo it. After all, this was just a chat where neither was trying to impress, and yet neither was struggling to participate either. I guess what I liked is what has always appealed to me about the older woman, quite simply the lack of pretence (ironic when you consider yours truly eh). She was married, in her very latter forties, children, a good career. What did I think about interacting with someone married? Well by then I’d already been indulgent of far more so the issue didn’t arise. Why was she online? She just wanted to chat to anyone (anyone non pervy that is) out there. Of course that raised obvious questions. But we didn’t go there just yet. Instead we discovered we actually had much in common (we’d even been to the same university – though years apart obviously). What I did begin to notice though was how her willingness to just “talk” was drawing me out without realising it. I mean usually in such exchanges I must admit there’d be an element of flirting on my part. That’s what had brought me online in the first place after all, to prove to myself I could.
We ended our first tete a tete in the early hours with polite goodnights. I hadn’t learned much more about her but it didn’t seem to matter. It had been a pleasant distraction with a nice enough person but fairly throwaway too in the grand scheme of things. Only over the next fortnight, if I happened to be logged in on a given evening, an IM of “Hello, are you busy?” would appear and in and around whatever else I was doing, the chatting continued (a couple of times I said “hi” first too by the way, it wasn’t all her, I’m a lot of things but not that vain).
Now I began to learn more. Firstly although it wasn’t exactly late when we spoke (even if it was late by the time we’d finish), it seemed her husband was already in bed every time. So was he ill, tired? No. He drank. Here was an older man she’d idolised, married, bore a family with who’d steadily succumbed to the bitterness, paranoia and dependence that alcoholism brings. She couldn’t go anywhere, everything was her fault, she alone was bringing up two kids (in their early and difficult teens) who saw all but said little, and her own blossoming career had suffered as a result. She merely had her new kitchen (her haven most nights), her sisters (on the few times she was “allowed” out without being made to feel guilty) and her laptop. But she wasn’t here to bemoan her lot. Far from it. That’s why it took a while for this story to surface. She was here to smile, laugh, escape, rediscover who she once was in these last hours; a combatant with rapier wit, a connoisseur of things artistic (though such appreciation had since fallen by the wayside), a former “rear of the year” at the local rugby club. She was decent. I honestly wasn’t flirting. But I liked talking to her, I really did.
Inevitably we met. She happened to be in Covent Garden one early evening – she’d earned a begrudged pass – and so I thought what the hell. And when we met, at the station, she was beautiful. I don’t mean in that annoyingly James Blunt way. But that’s the word I’d use (even her picture hadn’t done her justice). We drank in a quiet bar, we dined in a quieter restaurant. And after some initial reticence on her part (I’d done this before, she hadn’t) we soon slipped into the comfort of our recent online chats. Everything was so understated – but that remained the appeal – and for the first time in a while I was being the “me” I’d perhaps really wanted from that transformation. However as I later walked her back through Covent Garden (her Cinderella moment almost up), reminded of my past antics around here with Tammy, and of course with Jane, I knew this wasn’t right. Why? Because she wasn’t them, or even those other married women I’d later known who had done this before and wanted “less”. But I could tell we’d clicked, that she might like me, that I might like her. Yet this meant “complications”. And was I ready for that? No. Nor was she either, of that I’m certain. By now we were saying goodbye at the station and my improved, slicker self wanted very much to kiss her, and to this day I think I could have. But yes, “complications” – ones from which I could steal off afterwards when post lust my perspectives might be different. But could she? I doubted it. She had more to lose in so many ways, and she wasn’t here for that anyway.
You know I’d made one rule when starting out on this journey. Whatever I did was not meant to be at the expense of someone else. So instead I pecked her softly on her smooth cheek and walked away (metaphorically and literally). Later I removed her from my IM too. I did get an email saying she was sad we’d lost touch. But I didn’t reply. And there’re those of you I know who rant how this is such a low thing to do – who hate that inexplicable radio silence just when things seemingly look so promising. But I did it because I could have done much worse, and she deserved that far less than my lack of response. And it’s probably coloured my later actions too; like those recent textual exchanges I didn’t follow up, or with numerous no strings FWBs where we’ve instead always agreed to mutually “quit while we’re ahead”.
This is no sad story though. I have no regrets. It just wasn’t our time. And perhaps in my current round of introspection it reminds me that my less manipulative version of the “player” is in all honesty the better hand to play. Admittedly I occasionally do wonder what might have transpired if she’d been unattached. Then again so much more has gone on since that, in my opinion, it confirms I probably acted for the best.
Still the one thing about that Covent Garden summer night I know I’ll never forget remains the first and last time I saw her. She really was beautiful…
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