Mr. Unavailable #98: Fight Club

See From Russia, With No Love, More of the (Exact) Same, Sanity Takes a Turn and The Calm Before the Storm for the background on this one.


The weekend after the hurricane, Zoe found an apartment and moved out. You could say two hurricanes had passed through—Hurricane Irene and the hurricane created by one sofa-occupying, drama-loving Brit. Because Zoe had finally given up on finding the perfect place, she was able to quickly take a loft share in Williamsburg. There was a strange calm in my apartment. A quiet, uncluttered and unnerving calm. Was this just the eye of the storm? I called #98.

“I’m antsy,” I said.

“You want coffee? I buy you coffee.”

It was a hot, humid September Sunday—gray, very post-hurricane. I was wearing my house-outfit: a pink Salvation Army tennis skirt and a T-shirt. We met in front of The Bean. I was restless.

“Let’s go somewhere,” I said.

“You want to go to 9th street espresso?” he said. “They have excellent coffee. Best coffee in the city.”

“Let’s go,” I said.

There's one other facet of my relationship with #98 that I forgot to mention. After we reconnected in a friendly way the previous winter, an odd dynamic had developed. When we’d run into each other, he’d get me to reveal some recent vulnerability. At first he would listen, but, as the conversation wore on, he’d begin telling me that whatever it was was some kind of problem and, because it was mine, I was to blame. Then I’d get angry and walk away. Put simply: he’d pick a fight. The pattern repeated itself several times. But, this summer, there was none of that. There was support, compassion, mutually expressed vulnerability. It was like we were becoming friends.

As we walked deeper into the East Village, I told him how I felt like I was in the eye of the storm. “It’s a big change,” he said. “She’s been staying with you how long?”

“Three months.”

“Three months is enough time to meet someone, get pregnant and breakup,” he said. That, I knew.

We reached the quiet, spacious coffee bar on 9th Street. He bought two lattes and let me choose which one I wanted and where we were going to sit. We took up two stools by the window and somehow got on the topic of ghosts.

“I have a ghost—or had a ghost,” I said.

“Tell me your ghost stories, mama,” he said. I told him my ghost stories. He nodded—believing me— and then told me some of his own ghost stories. After about an hour, he was late to meet a friend, so we walked partway back to our street and then parted ways on 5th St. and 2nd Ave.

The next night, he texted me: Can I take you out for sushi dinner?

At the sushi place up 1st Avenue, I perused the menu.

“Should I get the avocado roll or the cucumber roll? I asked,”

“Sweetie, you get whatever you want,” he said.

I looked at him. He smiled, silently urging me to order everything I could possibly want. His gaze lingered as if I were rolled up in nori and rice, too.

Two days later, it was my birthday. There were six of us out to dinner at Peels on Bleecker and Bowery, including #98. He sat across the wide table next to Zoe. He leaned in to her, telling her jokes. She laughed and played with her hair. To the untrained eye, it would have looked like they were flirting.  Jealousy stirred. It was MY birthday; he should be joking with ME.

Before dessert, I switched sides to, as I said, mingle. Everyone sang me happy birthday and then he walked me home and…said good-night.

Maybe I was after something, maybe I was bored or maybe I was just treating him like a friend, but two days later, I called him to thank him for coming to my birthday.

“You want coffee? I buy you coffee,” he said. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

When I walked to the corner, he was sitting on a bench.

“Sit down,” he said sweetly, patting the bench.

Something felt different. Were we experiencing low barometric pressure? Was it about to rain? Was a storm coming? Did #98 just brushed my hair behind my shoulder and run the backs of his fingers across my cheek and down my arm? Is #98 staring into my eyes? Did #98 just put his arm around me and pull me closer, encouraging me to rest my head on his shoulder?

This was more than friendly. I sat there, too stunned to react. I didn’t exactly hate it, so maybe I liked it. I decided that until I sussed out what to do, I would—despite my excess sweat and flushed face—try to act as normal as I possibly could.

We veered nervoulsy from topic to topic and somehow screeched to a halt on the doorstep of marriage.

“Why do you want to get married?” he asked. That was a real question. He was looking for a real answer. This was weird. This whole thing was weird. He wasn’t being open about the fact that he was seriously coming onto me but he wanted me to be open about my thoughts on marriage? I couldn't do it.

“For company,” I said. It was kind of true. There was, of course, more to it than that. Or was there? He knew my answer was bullshit because about two minutes later I’d managed to steer the conversation away from marriage and onto something less perilous—the gym—when he picked a fight.

“You’re very selfish,” he said. “Very self-centered.” On a sidenote, he'd stopped going to the gym or exercising exactly because he thought it was so self-involved.

“Why do you always do this?” I said.

“Do what?” he said. “I’m just telling you how you are. It's good for you to know.”

“I have to go,” I said. I got up and walked back to my building and up to my apartment. But, when I got upstairs, I started laughing. I finally realized what his picking fights with me was really all about.

Signs of Hope: We hadn’t had a fight in months—before this one, anyway. And right before he picked a fight, he was definitely coming onto me.

Red Flags: The whole picking-a-fight thing.

Turning Point: When he picked our last fight.

Diagnosis: For him: The reason he kept picking fights with me was because he needed to keep me at a distance. So when I kept him at a distance with my half-assed answer, he realized he had to re-double his efforts.
For me: Whether or not he deserved it, I was afraid of being vulnerable with him. I gave him a half-assed answer when he asked why I wanted to get married. But my reasons for wanting to get married are much deeper than that. Or are they?