Still, at the party, I made the most of things by doing some quality primary research on the other Unavailables in attendance. I struck up a conversation with one Mr. Unavailable I'd had a crush on several years before. I’d met him one night at dinner with some friends. We’d chatted amiably and, when he'd left, he'd touched me on the shoulder and smiled. After that, whenever I’d see him around, I’d turn mute and eschew eye contact. Eventually, it was easier to take the low road and pretend I had no idea who he was.
So I surprised myself when he approached me at the party and I didn’t go silent or become oddly interested in the ground. On the first encounter, he walked by me and touched my shoulder to say hello; I smiled and said hello back. Later, in the same mingling circle, we started talking. It turned out he’d just broken his collarbone in a bicycle accident and that, because he wasn’t wearing any kind hospital-issued contraption to demarcate injury, women continued to give him big hugs and, men, buddy-like arm jabs. I threw out a few practical suggestions:
“Maybe you should get a fake cast to get the visual message across.”
“Maybe you should wrap caution tape around yourself.”
And then one silver-lining comment for good measure:
“At least this way, you don’t have people coming up to you at all times, asking, ‘What happened?’”
He didn’t laugh. Was he paying attention? Had he lost his sense of humor in the accident? Had he never had a sense of humor? That’s the problem with a lot of really attractive men. They’ve never had to hone their humor to get a girl.
And then, out of nowhere, #126 appeared through the darkness, eyes gazing at me, arms enveloping me. The other guy stopped existing. And when #126 let go, I looked into his eyes and said to him, “You got a haircut.”
He smiled at me, crookedly.
“I figured I should probably try to fit in at least a little bit,” he said, his voice cracking in that deep, throaty way that it did.
“Yeah, you’re in Manhattan, none of that longed-haired, muesli-eating, sandal crap goes far.” He nodded as he usually did--with the whole upper half of his body--and just gazed at me, so I kept talking. “Did you see my email? I think you should get a ceiling fan for the bathroom.”
“OK,” he said a millisecond later.
There’s nothing like telling a man an idea and hearing, “yes,” before you’ve even have a chance to inhale at the end of the sentence. That’s all we women want—what we want.
For the next 45 minutes, we talked as if we were under some sort of spell, about I don't know what, but we kept coming up with things because neither of us wanted to stop talking. I vaguely remember seeing Eva come nearer, see us and then walk away. The spell was only broken when Elaine came over and insisted we dance. On the other side of the roof—the dance floor—everyone was dancing more than acceptably well. And then I looked over at #126. His arms floated around without purpose and he swayed his hips in a way that was entirely not aligned with the music. I wasn’t sure if he was joke-dancing or real-dancing.
I had to look away and, when I turned back, he was gone. James was nearby and, as “Bizarre Love Triangle” played, I asked, “ Where’d [#126] go?”
“Oh, I’ll go get him,” he said, spinning around to go. The way he jumped made me think #126 had said something about me.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that,” I said.
He insisted. “No, I can just go get him…”
He took a few steps and, as if he'd just thought better of it, stopped, saying, "Oh, he’s fine, he’s just talking to some girls.”
Girls? To me, he was far too awkward to be talking to girls—plural.
A few hours later, I was becoming tired—and hopeless—when my little gang decided it was time to go. I located #126 across the roof talking to a girl—singular—but I chose to not let it visibly bother me and walked over and hugged him good-bye. He held on for a few extra moments and then said, “Good night, sweetie, we’ll talk soon.”
Girls? To me, he was far too awkward to be talking to girls—plural.
A few hours later, I was becoming tired—and hopeless—when my little gang decided it was time to go. I located #126 across the roof talking to a girl—singular—but I chose to not let it visibly bother me and walked over and hugged him good-bye. He held on for a few extra moments and then said, “Good night, sweetie, we’ll talk soon.”
Signs of Hope: The moment he walked up to me at the party. Said Eva, “You were into each other, that’s why I stayed away. And, by the way, he looked far more nervous than you did.”
Red Flags: When he was talking to girlsss—and never came back to talk to me.
And then, of course, there was the dancing. Said Eva, “Can you imagine taking him to a wedding the way he was dancing? What a doughnut.”
Turning Point: There were two. The first was when he appeared at the party and the second was when I left the party. The two points lay at the exact opposite ends of the hope spectrum.
Diagnosis: For him: He's into me. Right?
For me: Dammit, I'm into him.
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