What Would I Say?

So where were we when this little schlep down memory lane began?  Oh, yes. Scott's last unanswered text.

I did not answer because I could not. It was a running-on-one's-sword, cards-on-the-table sort of text. He'd loved seeing me. The short encounter had made him miss me even more. He had really hoped I'd come back to hug and kiss him.

I could not tell whether that last line pertained to my return from the Office of the Unwashed Masses or was a more general statement. Some romantic notion that I'd searched the world over for him so I could fall into his arms a live Happily Ever After, some cosmic force having once again pushed us together. (Those cosmic forces have some great pranks...)

Not unlike my friend Jane who I'd had to unfriend and block, he seemed to take every contact as a new opportunity.  A cosmic message from the world that we were meant to be together. Though I trust his intentions were purer of heart than Jane's. Jane was a double agent observing and reporting for her own benefit and at everyone else's expense. Scott really just wanted me back. In some way.

And even though it is not even a remote consideration, people have asked me if it is a possibility. (At least those who have not threatened to throw a net over my head and drag me off in the direction of the nearest Booby Hatch do) And I can truthfully say it is not. No way, Jose.  Hit the road, Jack. The line forms on the right, babe. No, going back to Scott is not an option.

But think about it. What would that look like?  It would be a two-week courtship (not unlike those he was a proud proponent of in high school).  And it would end badly. Very badly.

• We'd reunite.
• In a matter of days he'd recall in living color whatever it was that gave him the vapors and made him run for the fire exit in the Fall. (Oh! Right, right, right, right....).
• In those same days, he'd compare unfavorably to nearly every kind, mature, educated, successful, attentive, fascinating, communicative man I've spent even a minute with in the last few months, and I'd be making excuses. ("Sorry, can't see you tonight...I promised I'd take a class with my elderly neighbors on 1,000 uses for your used candles and bars of soap.") 
• We'd decide we don't really like each other and vanish from each others lives again. Why bother with the litmus test?

OR

• We'd reunite
• Panicking, and vowing never to let me get away again, he'd race to the jeweler and get a ring, on Beyonce's sage advice. 
• And he'd find some cute, adorable, hard to refuse way to give it to me. This time, I am the one with the vapors.
• And I'd refuse anyway, because he compares unfavorably to nearly every kind, mature, educated, successful, attentive, fascinating, communicative man I've spent even a minute with in the last few months
• And a dozen YouTube moments would follow, the final one featuring me peeling away from the curb in front of his house with him hanging onto the bumper of my car.
• Not pretty.

So, no. I don't answer. There really isn't anything to say that isn't hurtful or even hateful. Silence will say it all more effectively. And perhaps less harshly.