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The Last (Most Recent) Temptation of Zen

Gotta love those third-person delusions of grandeur.
Everyone knows temptation in some way, shape, or form. A number of those forms are relatively harmless to the world, such as my love for toys, or more harmful, such as a debilitating drug habit. Others see temptation in the open embrace of a beautiful man or woman, even if they are otherwise spoken for in that regard, ruining marriages and causing many people around the world scores of sleepless nights.
Like most humans, I see temptation almost every day.
I saw temptation in the person of a beautiful woman I know, on the evening and night of this nation's Independence Day. She's probably reading this, or has read it, or will read it. Hi, if you're watching. :-)
Where did it begin? Was it with an innocent instant message? A picture shared by a mutual friend? Who knows, in the end. She says "don't fall in love", "don't wait", and other things along the same lines, and I listen, despite the fact that I'm a hopeless romantic in some ways and telling me such things is akin to telling a young child to stay away from candy. But like any good child, I listen all the same, kicking my feet on the thick shag carpeting.
I made contact with this person shortly after my return from Columbus, wishing to share some details I couldn't in good conscience reveal to the world. Temptation is a theme which has dogged my steps, whether of the self or others, back and forth across four states in three days. It follows me still in the warm morning. I felt the need to talk to someone, someone who didn't know my life story all too very very well, not for advice, not so I could feel better, just, for once I suppose, because I felt that talking would ease my conscience.
It did, to a certain extent.
Although it's possible that I bought a questionable amount of emotional well-being at the cost of someone else's. Time will tell in that regard. Hopefully not, but we'll see.
In the end, as usual, it begins with a drive.
And a house.
Driving around the Baltimore beltway at night on July 4th was a little different. I caught faraway sight of numerous fireworks displays (Downtown Baltimore, Rosedale, White Marsh, Edgemere, Pasadena). There were even some cars stopped on the side of the road to watch the pyrotechnics. I briefly considered what fireworks have meant from time to time on the silver screen, as a male lead puts his arms around a female lead, and the scene changes to a fireworks display. As I've said many times, men can be pigs. Am I different?
I reach the neighborhood where my friend lives, remembering well the area from my journey of a month or so ago. I knock on my friend's door...
A stranger opens it just enough for me to realize that I'm not in the right place. I apologize and trudge back to the sidewalk, making my way to another house, chosen at random, which belongs to my friend, although the lights were out. I knock at the door...
No one answers. Maybe no one's home. This isn't the right house, again.
It occurs to me that I don't know my friend's street address, although I know I'm on the right block. It also occurs that a pay phone is none too far away, and that I may look suspiciously like a prowler, despite the fact that nearly everyone is outside, oohing and ahhing at various explosions. I choose another house which looks right, although at this point I'm fairly certain that I'll knock on a dozen more doors until I find my quarry. Naturally, a stranger opens the door and kindly tells me to f*ck off.
One of the things about fear that I occasionally miss in my normally fearless life is the way it works so well with self-preservation. People were definitely looking at me in a way which was not at all friendly, although not hostile. Perhaps they thought I was some sort of idiot. Almost I thought about walking to the local convenience store to call my friend and confirm her street address. Almost.
Then I caught sight of a familiar chandelier in a darkened apartment. I stroll into the walkway leading to her house, taking more time than is wise in deciphering the security precautions she had taken since last I saw her (a length of bungee cord tied around her chain-link fence gate). Introibo ad altare deae...
I startle my friend by knocking abruptly on her door, then let myself into the house. We greet with a hug and I give unto the priestess my offering: a corkscrew. She has on hand the libations we'll make to immortal Dionysus. I'd mentioned needing a stiff drink before unburdening my soul and she was willing to oblige.
Ah, the demon rum! In its undiluted form it is not to taken lightly. Being used to consuming poison, knocking back a couple shots was no problem for me. She recoiled somewhat more like a human being than I, to her credit, I think. We stroll outside to the front porch, rum and diet cokes in hand, to see what we may see.
Sitting on the top step of her well-kept stoop, with maybe half an inch between us for personal space, but comfortable, we ooh and ahh in turn, her sincerely, me not so much so, at the explosions around the neighborhood.
Fireworks are as fun to watch as a protracted missile bombardment, minus the threat of omnipresent death. She jumps once as one comes too near, as I sit impassive, mouthing conventionalities about swimming in the winter and making fanciful plans to visit the ocean, perhaps that very night. In time, we return to the confines of her living room, and I spin my tale of woe from the beginning to the present, my tongue loosened somewhat by the rum, and the wine. Oddly enough, I felt no shame in doing this, although the story isn't mine so much as it is the tale of those around me at various points.
The air inside is thick with something other than two friends catching up on life. Eventually, somehow, we find ourselves sitting, lying, very close, and that temptation which has bestridden my world like a colossus since (eventually) reaching my destination steps squarely on my throat, threatening to squash out my life if I don't relent. A thought courses back and forth through my mind and body: she's spoken for.
There are some who say that liquor makes the truth come out. Regardless of the truth or falsehood of that idea, it does lower inhibitions. I'm not sure how much I gave in to the strong temptation which had beset me. Not so much as could have happened, surely, but at least to a small extent I was not just a bystander. For the most part, though, I was a man of ice.
There was no heroism in what happened. There were no pretensions of universal significance, just a couple of young people who had somewhat to drink and were, by degrees, flitting between expressing their feelings and trying to prevent guilt. The guilt is nonexistent on my end as I am as single as they come...only to the extent that my friend may feel some remorse do I feel it by proxy. I suppose I'll find out if she feels bad about what little that did occur, and if she does, then I'll feel bad for her. She deserves better, but all in all, almost nothing happened. Certainly much less than what could have.
She could have better if she would. One day that may come to pass...although she keeps saying "don't wait for me", "don't fall for me". I won't, and I haven't. It would be foolish.
But so very tempting.
In the end, I feel mostly at ease, because while what transpired wasn't entirely innocent, it mostly happened around me more so than because of me. Hopefully this friendship has not been demeaned. Again, we'll see. I have the feeling that the mostly nothing will end up being entirely nothing.
Nothing more than a close brush with temptation.