Seven

K is the seventh woman.

If I were to go back in time and tell the 22-year-old me, "In the next 16 years, there will be seven women," I would have been amazed. Back then, I didn't think I'd ever find one who would be interested in me. I guess I was a late bloomer.

I hope that my number stops at seven. In the judeo-christian Western world, seven is a special number. It's Biblical. It's magical. It's lucky. It's all over our art, literature, and popular culture.

So it would be a nice and tidy happy ending if the seventh woman were also my last.

As I see it, there are two ways to fulfill that narrative. One is good, the other is bad. If K and I stay together, then she will be my last. That's the good scenario. The other possibility is that we could break up and I could never find another. I have to admit that the way I feel about her right now, I worry that she might have ruined me for other women. I really can't imagine finding someone that I'm as attracted to who also seems to fit me so well. But I felt that way about SnarkEx, and I got over that. So it's probably not as grim as I think.

I really am completely in the dark about how this is all going to play out. At this point there are two equally plausible story lines: One sees us ending up together, and the other has us parting ways. I really have no idea which way it will go. But like a good movie, I'm riveted to see what happens.

Speaking of seven, here are three other pieces of magic. I am seven years older than K. When we saw each other last October, it had been seven years since we had last seen each other. And it took me about seven minutes into that meeting to fall in love with her. (Okay, so I'm reaching with that last one, but the other two are true.)