Back in I took a research trip to Louisville, Kentucky, to do some writing and interview a friend who lived there. James and Belgravia Courts, home to a plethora of grand old Victorian manses whose architecture I never tired of ogling.
The first man wanted to be friends-with-benefits but remained emotionally distant, while the second pursued emotional intimacy but avoided sex. Both were dodging committing to a full-on relationship, and I was frustrated. On my last evening in Louisville, I visited my houses one final time. James the base , stroll along Belgravia the top , and finish my walk down the left side of St.
All I was eyeing were shelves of books, but I felt like a peeping Tom, so I skulked, camera in hand, giddy with guilt. A man approached from St. James, and I figured I was about to get scolded. Forty-something, reasonably trim, close-cropped gray hair, regular featuresβhe was handsome in an ordinary guy kind of way. He wore a plain t-shirt and shorts. I thought, well, the houses are pretty, but why so many cameras?
Where do you live now? No one else was out walking, though we were surrounded by homes. He traveled to set up new grocery store displays for organic frozen vegetables. We introduced ourselvesβhis name was Timβand he asked about my job. I told him I taught and wrote, that I was doing some research in town. He asked me if the area was safe, which was reassuring.
I played tour guide, extolling the neighborhood and selling him on the charms of the historic downtown hotels; he was staying at a chain and thought it dull. Uh oh. Even in a strange city, out minding my own business taking pictures of gargoyles, I was a magnet for a man on the rebound. I suggested Match.
