The Last Kiss

And the truth of the matter is, I had already met someone interesting.  Interesting and funny and smart and successful and attentive. And a champion caliber flirt. He'd become a friend through friends over the past few years but we'd not spent tons of time together. We just had common friends.

But when Scott flew the coop and carpet bombed our life together in doing so, we'd connected like I had connected with so many old friends at the time.  He had words of kindness. He said things to cheer me up. He made me laugh when I could not imagine that I'd find a single thing on this Earth worth laughing about.

And then we'd started to flirt. And flirt some more. And talk more regularly.  I'd put a post on Facebook in the morning and he'd text me a "good morning" note. We'd have coffee together if only virtually. And we started to get to know each other.

And when we finally made plans to go out, I was so thrilled. For more than the obvious reasons.

Of course I was excited to see him. And of course I was optimistic about the possibilities.

But it was more than that. 

There is a sense of satisfaction and achievement in getting to this point. I remember the same sense of personal satisfaction when Lars and I were getting divorced (not that there were many gratifying moments during that protracted misadventure) and I was invited to my very first social event alone.  The invitation was sent just to me. Me me me me me. It was finally going to be about me.

And at that event, which was Jackie's 40th birthday party, and for which I must have bought 14 new outfit options, I met Mac.  He was tall and handsome and funny as hell. He had a great career and a cool car and a bad ass attitude.  I liked him immediately and two days later he asked me for a date.

And in addition to being very excited about the man himself, I had another thing to smile about.

There is always something very gratifying when the man who did you wrong is no longer the last man you kissed.