Mr. Unavailable #98: From Russia, With No Love

This is a Mr. Unavailable Mini Flashback, circa December 2009.

Vital Stats: 40ish, 6'ish. Russian Anesthesiologist. Vaguely muscle-bound with boyish face. Attractively graying with a short, almost buzzed, haircut. Aesthetic: He had an unruly preppy thing going (rolled up jeans, plaid shirts, tank tops). Demeanor: Serious Russian, but, once you cracked the surface, there was something else--although he remained something of a dichotomy: the crass gentleman.

First Impression: Brooding loner. I was guesting at a Montauk summer share in 2009 and first saw him sitting in a corner of the deck by himself wearing headphones and hidden in a hooded sweatshirt.

Signs of Hope: He quickly perked up at the share house and proved a worthy Scrabble opponent. It turned out he lived in the East Village, too, and carried my bags from Penn Station all the way home for me. Whenever we would run into each other on the street or I would call him for a favor (see: vaguely muscle-bound), he would ask me for coffee. I ran into him at a party later that summer and he told me I looked very sexy and then teased me mercilessly for usually (insert Russian accent) "dressing like a leetle giiirrrl."

Red Flags: Eventually, on one of our coffee outings, I found out he had a girlfriend, or something significantly less official. When he broke up with her, he mentioned she was a stripper and affectionately referred to her as "my Russian whore."

Turning Point: He saw me at a party in December 2009 and bee-lined for me. We danced all night to late 80s favorites like New Order and The Cure. He told me I looked very sexy. I turned to go to the ladies room and, when I returned, he left without saying good-bye. I later emailed him a flirty note and heard nothing back.

Diagnosis: In retrospect, I have a feeling we were both thinking the same thing at the party ("We're all hotted up here, how could this possibly end?") and we were both afraid of it. I have no doubt he saw his opportunity to escape and, again in retrospect, I realize I was somewhat relieved that he left (and perhaps my email to him was an attempt to get some kind of attention that I was ultimately afraid of).

Second Opinion: I found out later that, apparently, he "dates" a lot and I don't normally (except, ahem, #100) "date" like that. Maybe my relief at his having left without saying good-bye meant my flight instincts were wisely kicking in.