Excuse Me, Mister

“The girl who can’t dance says the band can’t play.”
a Yiddish proverb

I have to catch up on my writing, and sleep, and probably six other things that, for the moment, I can’t think of. I know I need to finish unpacking my apartment (it’s been over a month already). I need to go back to the gym. I should probably eat something [healthy].

But I met someone. His name is Excuse. And we love each other very much.

You might know him; he’s pretty tall tale for his age. He enjoys procrastinating, long walks to undetermined beaches (though he might say he needs to go somewhere else or something suddenly came up, baby, then kisses me on the forehead because he assumes I understand). He sleeps through alarms and storms, or sometimes he can’t sleep at all. He wakes up too tired. He stays out too late, lets his dog run rampant around his paperwork. He’s often too busy or out of town. But when he’s around, he tugs at the gut, then the heartstrings, as if my body were a harp. He holds me tight and whispers all the things we’ll do tomorrow—all the plans for next week or a few months from now, his plans for the future. He sounds enthusiastic knowing he’ll accomplish all this eventually, twirling a bit of my hair around the arc of my ear before he gets up to leave (because he thinks he hears his phone).

He’s a good person, too. He works late and with so much love for his position, has charity event after charity event (I can’t go because he isn’t ready for me to meet his coworkers just yet, cross my fingers), and wishes constantly that he had all the time in the world so he could spend most of it with me.

He’s a gentleman whenever he apologizes (which, strangely, he does a lot, like the time when he left his wallet in the left jacket pocket on his big red chair at home and the surprise on his face was so honest and sweet I couldn’t help but forgive him for not being able to pay on our first date). He finds ways to get us out of uncomfortable situations. And he always treats me well, even when he can’t afford to take us someplace nice.

He often isn’t completely finished—with dishes, taxes, and other tedious tasks (because, well, they’re tedious so I get it). He doesn’t mind arriving late or leaving early. He can’t wait. Or sometimes he can’t make it. He forgets to buy gifts or to call me back. He loves it when I help him remember.

And through the good and the bad, I love him just the same (at least that’s what I tell him). Because what guy really wants to hear that you’re using him?

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