#133 must have been feeling some degree of the fuzzies, too, because a few days after our 24-hour date, he emailed to ask if I wanted to take the tram to Roosevelt Island to “see what that place is all about.”
That probably doesn’t sound like a very good date. I, however, am someone who took the Staten Island Ferry once for fun and then got off to actually see Staten Island. All it had to offer was a bus ride and lunch at Burritoville, but at least I know.
#133 had the same mindset. On our motorcycle trip the weekend before, at the first tollbooth after we passed Roosevelt Island, we lifted our visors to talk and discovered that neither of us had been there and we both found it mysterious.
On Sunday he came to pick me up. He was early. I answered the door, makeup-less. “You’re seeing behind the curtain,” I said. “You got here before the magic happened.”
“Nah,” he said, “You don't need magic.”
That made me like him. He looked cute. Taller, somehow. And his hair was disheveled from his motorcycle helmet. I could tell he’d put product in it. He’d made an effort. He sat on my sofa as I went between rooms getting ready.
“Every time you walk back into the room, you get prettier and prettier,” he said. That made me like him, too.
When I was ready to go, I couldn’t find my Metrocard. “I don’t understand why women always lose things. Why don’t you just put it in the same place all the time? I just keep mine in my wallet. Why don’t you just keep it in your wallet,” he said.
That made me not like him. “Obviously, that’s just not how women are,” I said. “Especially if, like you said, we all do it.”
“It’s not that hard to just keep everything in the same place.”
“We have a lot of different places to put things and what we carry with us changes all the time—different purses, different coats with different pockets.”
“But you always have your wallet.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “We’re going to have to agree to disagree.”
I found my Metrocard and we went to the pizza place around the corner so he could get a slice before going uptown, but I was still annoyed.
“I like this place,” he said, taking a bite of his pizza.
“Why? Because it’s cheap?” I asked, and, in so doing, failed to agree to disagree. I smiled at him to veil my bitchiness, putting the finishing touch on the passive-agressive nature of my question. He recoiled.
On the bus uptown, I knew I had to make it up to him. Talking about his Facebook photos—he’d friended me a week or so before—he asked if I’d seen the one he was in with his dad.
“He looks pretty heavy, right?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I was only looking at you.”
He un-recoiled and, once on the tram, we got cozy as I held onto him for stability. The sun was shining. He held me. He was warm. When we got off the tram, we headed in the direction of the Roosevelt Island lighthouse. Strolling along as if we were some kind of happy couple in the early phases of dating, I figured it was a good time to break the news about my age.
“Oh, I have a confession to make,” I said as if I’d just thought of some trifle I’d not yet mentioned. “I’m not actually the age I said I was on my profile.”
“What age were you on your profile? I don’t remember.”
“I don’t remember either, maybe 35,” I said. A lie. “But I’m 39.”
“Oh, well, I’m almost 39,” he said, “and I always assume whatever age women put in their profiles isn’t their real age. My ex said she was 35 in her profile.”
Ah, his oft-mentioned ex. “How old was she really?” I asked.
“44,” he said. I was relieved, and annoyed because she came up again, but mostly relieved.
We got to the lighthouse and sat on the wall by the water, looking at its stubby phallic-ness. “It’s not as impressive as I thought it would be,” he said.
“Yeah, it’s kind of a letdown,” I agreed.
Sitting on the wall, with the water behind us and the Manhattan skyline at sunset laid out to our right, it was a prime opportunity to be close—like on the tram—but there was only distance. He nudged my foot with his. They touched, but there was no connection. Was it because I told him my real age? Was it his ex? Did the lighthouse remind him of one of his own shortcomings (one which I had yet to see or feel)?
“Why don’t we get some food,” he said. Other than the lighthouse, there wasn’t much of a scene on Roosevelt Island. It was quiet and concrete, almost communist. “Where are all the people?” I whispered to #133. It was part of Manhattan and desolate. It was only a matter of time before developers got their hands on it.
We ordered some food at a pub. He wanted to order a bunch of chicken wings, which he said he loved, but then he began to cheap-out. “They’re $1.25 each,” he said. “Maybe we’ll just get five.”
Then the waitress told us they were 25 cents each that day. “OK, how about seven,” he asked.
“Let’s make it 10,” I said.
Over two burgers and 10 wings, #133 opened up a little.
"I actually have two nicknames," he said, putting away a couple of wings.
The one I knew him by was his adult nickname but his childhood nickname was something else. Without naming names, let's just say, for example, that if his adult nickname was Bill, his childhood nickname was Billy. He said his family and close friends called him that, so I could call him that, too. I thought it was sweet.
"My ex never used to call me that, she always insisted on calling me [Bill]," he said. There she was again.
"OK, [Bill...Billy]," I said, messing it up. A thought struck. "Actually, that's what I'm going to call you. My nickname for you is now [Bill-Billy]."
He smiled. "Yeah, I like that," he said.
The rest of the date was uneventful. We took the tram back to the big island and then the bus downtown, on which he read over the shoulder of some kid who was reading a self-help book and made fun of him; we watched a movie and then he stayed over. It was nice, cozy, all that, but, he didn’t try anything and, still just glad for a warm body, I didn’t mind that he didn't.
Signs of Hope: He planned this date soon after the last and followed-through—and there was some closeness.
Red Flags: He was cheap and sometimes distant. I was curious about a further shortcoming he might reveal, but, for now, it remained all, er, boxered up.
Turning Point: None. Or too many. Things were entirely up and down although not dramatically so--definitely not enough to register on a Richter scale.
Diagnosis: For him: He’s being quite the gentleman. I think.
For me: In a relationship, I’m supposed to embrace shortcomings…right?
No comments:
Post a Comment