Cycling to the coffee shop, in a daze.

“I’ll be 15 minutes late” I texted the woman I was meeting.

I pedaled rather hard for foggy eyes, cloudy head.

I was late, because HE had called.

That beautiful man I’d met when I randomly jumped in the river. (See previous Moment: “Thousands of People Gathered…”) The man with the husky eyes and annoyingly perfect, statuesque physique. That man that I’d spent the day with, and the night, hiking Hamilton Mountain, debating the merits of wind versus kite surfing, and scheming up multi-modal world-travel eco-volunteer endurance adventures.

The man who had told me of his years exploring permaculture and bio-dynamic farming techniques at sustainable eco-villages in Hawaii, Japan and Australia. The man who spoke of a mitigating climate change via educating others about the overlaps between love and science and peace. The man who mapped out his mitochandrial DNA and cherished his grandmother.

The man who I kissed beneath the stars sitting where the Columbia River licks the rocks of one of my favorite vistas. The man who lives 8 hours away, but more than anyone else in many years, swept me off my feet.

That man called me.

And I had two very conflicting things I wanted to say:
“I want to see you again” and “I Googled you.”

I Googled him.

Five years ago: two counts of sexual assault.

The court papers posted on his minimal blog proclaim “Not Guilty; Charges Dropped”, but the news articles detailing two separate but very similar incidents from two different women corroborated by a roommate are burned into my skull. They were accounts that tell me that the words ‘sexual assault’ were seemingly too weak.

How could this possibly be the same man?

I arrive at the coffee shop. The woman I’m meeting had texted me back: “Let’s reschedule, then.”

I’d rushed off the phone with him to come to this coffee shop. Now I sit here alone. For some god-forsaken reason the barista switched from the soaring complex musical wonderment that is Alex Ebert to the jarring memory of decades past: The Backstreet Boys. (Seriously? I mean… seriously!?)

And this damn rose petal iced tea is f*<%ing $3. $3, and no refills.

As the sun reaches the horizon, I watch the glass sweat. The tea emits an amber glowing orb clad in shadow, spilling across the table.

Remember that time? That time you fell in love with a man you later found out was a rapist? Yeah, that one.

That word. Always a word to cause goose bumps, now shivers to my bone.