THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME
Posted on February 25, 2013 by Flan
There are some, probably just a few. Around the city, working and living near you. They are not hiding but it is not that easy to meet them. They are healthy, athletic, even talkative, have a good sense of humor, stylish and impeccable apartments, often a cat, some plants, a car, a motorbike, a bicycle, no exes, they are just full of friends, often female friends, and they simply enjoy their single life – in other words, they live alone and don’t want to change their status. They are perfect men. But alas, they are not perfect boyfriends.
You meet a guy at a party, he’s charming, attractive but not vain. The evening ends in the usual manner with you asking: “Will you take me home?” “You mean, you need a lift?” “No, I mean your home.” You have the edge of a stray dog, always looking for some man to give you food, shelter and affection. Men think you want a serious relationship,
while what you are really looking for is a place to hide and rest from your own messy apartment, and life, for a couple of hours every now and then. He drives an old Jeep and spends the weekends taking care of his little boat. When you enter his apartment you are 100 per cent pleased with the white walls with the black and white blow-ups, the
modern, outfitted yet still lived-in kitchen, plants, red sofas, and the purring cat stroking your legs. But it is when he gets naked that you realize that you have finally found one: he’s perfect, he’s a perfect man.
Against all odds, you end up seeing each other quite often. He cooks pizza for dinner and bakes fresh bread for the morning, just for you, takes you to the movies and never forgets to call. You can’t be more delighted. Since he lives only two blocks away you are even
contemplating getting seriously acquainted with the brief road between the two of you and buying a bicycle to get there and back. But unfortunately good things often don’t last. On the Friday of the third week, you are already wondering whether you should see him or not. You enjoy his company but his eyes scare you. His emotionless stare makes you think of that movie, The Stepford Wives, and so during the dinner, you frantically keep moving your hand toward his chest to make sure you feel a heartbeat somewhere under the ironed shirt and the sculpted pecs. And yet, you surrender once more, not to him but to your
instincts, and end up in his apartment again. It is two o’clock when you are hit by the familiar panic attack. If it wasn’t for those damn high heels you would be already running home. You take the bundle of clothes up from the floor, slip into the bathroom, dress quickly. When you unlock the door, you can hear him snoring lightly while the cat
stares at you happy to see you going. Stumbling down the stairs, you call a taxi. When you open the front door you start breathing again. Home, home, home, it is your own home you want to go to this time.