Mr. Unavailable #98: Crossing the Bridge

See From Russia, With No Love, More of the (Exact) Same, Sanity Takes a Turn, The Calm Before the Storm, Fight Club, Rejection=Flattery, Neanderthal No More? and Startling the Natives for the background on this one.

We hadn’t even gotten to the foot of the bridge when Eva accused #98 of being intoxicated.

“He’s not drunk. He’s totally sober. I’ve known him for years,” I said

Eva looked skeptical. “But he’s got holes in his shirt.”

“Believe it or not, he’s a doctor,” I said.

She looked at me in disbelief.

“Really. Seriously,” I said.

#98 must have enjoyed being thought of as a bum because, having proven himself up for a good debate at the barbecue, he did nothing to defend himself.

“Then you need to buy some new shirts if you want to be with Tara,” Eva said to him. #98 howled.

It took us a while to find the Williamsburg bridge, which gave Eva plenty of time to realize that he wasn’t drunk, he was just an argumentative Russian who didn’t know how to dress himself. It also gave her plenty of time to hassle him about his shirt, which he thought was hysterical.

As we crossed the bridge, the sun was setting. #98 put his arm around me as we walked, kissed me on the cheek, tried to coax me into kissing him on the lips, generally treated me as if he was on the verge of taking the next step. 

“You’re a doctor, you must have a lot of money, I’m sure you can buy a shirt that doesn’t have holes,” Eva said.

“Yes, I have lots of money I don’t know what to do with it.”

“You could take me out on a date,” I said.

“Yeah, you could probably take her to a pretty nice place, too,” Eva said.

“Yeah, um, we could dress up,” I said.

“I took you out on a date and you picked up garbage from the street and carried it around,” he said.

“That wasn’t a date,” I said. I turned to Eva. “We went to see a movie and I had to find a box to mail my nephew’s birthday present and there were a bunch in front of Starbucks.”

“Do you always pick up trash on your dates?” he teased.

He was evading the real issue, which was: what exactly were his intentions? And was he ever realy going to take me on a date?

We got to the Manhattan side of the bridge, dropped Eva off at the entrance to the subway and walked up through the Lower East Side. Arms around each other, I was hoping that, considering the overtures he appeared to be making, he would offer up more clarity.

He walked me to my apartment. Leaning on a bicycle harnessed to a signpost, he pulled me to him. Up until that point, we hadn’t actually kissed on the lips. There was a cheek kiss here, an ear nuzzle there, but, kissing? Too much. Somewhere deep inside, I'd drawn a line. As soon as he said something to indicate this was more than what it was so far, I'd cross the line.

But his lips—a pretty little pouf—looked so darned inviting. I considered for a moment. Maybe I could draw a new line. Maybe as long as no saliva was exchanged, then it was OK. My new line: kissing, no tongue. 

And so we did. It lived up to its pretty pouf of a promise.

I would like to say that crossing the bridge was some kind of metaphor for what happened next. But it wasn't. After a couple of minutes, I began fishing for my keys. I smiled coyly. He smiled back. Nothing explicit was said. Nothing implicit was implied. And then I turned and went in and he turned and went home.

Signs of Hope: He's trying to claim me—in front of people.

Red Flags: His intentions are still unclear.

Turning Point: None yet. Even though he professes to wanting to be together, his actions toward me say otherwise.

Diagnosis: For him: He can’t seem to quite pull the trigger. Yet.

For me: I’ve told him what I’m looking for. And I’m sticking to it.

Mr. Unavailable #98: Startling the Natives

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

Now might be a good time to reiterate that I was looking for something very specific. After taking some time to do Calling in the One and become clear on what I was looking for, I wasn’t settling for some cheap fling. My subconscious reminded me of this every now and then. I woke up on Saturday morning, almost a week after seeing the movie with #98, having remembered a dream. I don’t remember the details, but the upshot was that, in the dream, Ted Danson told me he loved me and wanted to be with me. Maybe it was his regal white hair or the obvious high level of fitness he had for his advanced age, but, for some reason, my subconscious chose Ted Danson as a symbol of stability and commitment. I woke up that morning feeling loved and taken care of.

Nine hours later, with no plans for Saturday night, I innocently texted #98.

Me: Do you want to go for frozen yogurt later?

#98: can not wait

About an hour later, I met #98 outside my building and we walked to Pinkberry on St. Marks. Things were normal, friendly until we went and sat in Thompkins Square Park. It was when I got a phone call that things began to change. While I was on the phone, he stroked my arm, rested his head on my shoulder, kissed me on the cheek.

After I got off the phone, I sing-songed, “Complicated.”

“What isn’t complicated?” #98 said. “Everything’s complicated.”

“Uh-uh, we’re friends and neighbors and I’m looking for something very specific.”

“Like what?”

I told him about my dream. “I’m looking for Ted Danson,” I said.

He laughed. “Ted Danson. Who’s that?”

I Googled Ted Danson on my phone and showed him a photo.

“Oh, he looks very distinguished, very respectable.”

“Exactly,” I said.

I didn’t completely give in to #98, but I did a little—by not exactly fighting him off. OK, I also rested my head on his shoulder…OK, OK, chest.

Except to be proud of myself that I kept him mostly at bay, I went home that night and didn’t give it another thought.

On Monday morning, Labor Day, I was dropping laundry off on the corner and someone called my name. It was #98. He was just coming back from an overnight working at the hospital. He helped me bring my laundry to the Lauderette and then, standing on the corner, he went on and on about the fight he had gotten into with a midwife, who didn’t want to reveal her ancient techniques.

I listened and then said, “Hey, do you want to go to a barbecue later?” I asked partly to get him to shut up about the fight and partly because I thought it might be fun to bring him. He told me to text him later with the details.

I met him on the corner of 3^rd Street and 1st Ave. at 3:30 p.m. It was a hot day, very hot. He was wearing a T-shirt with holes in it. "Thanks for dressing up," I said.

As we walked up 1^st Avenue to catch the L train to Williamsburg, the heavy groping began. I fended him off, as any lady would, but I could have put a firm stop to it—as in, “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop grabbing me.” But I liked the attention, so I stifled my annoyance.

On the subway toward Brooklyn, he pointed at our reflections and said, “Look, that’s us. Don’t we look good together?” Was that sincerity? Did he say “together”? Did he mean it?

And then on the walk toward the barbecue, there was more groping.

“Is it too much?” he asked.

The fact that he asked relieved me. At least he was aware he was a pervert.

“No, it’s OK. Thanks for asking,” I said. 

"It's nice to get attention," he said. 

"Yes, I like the attention," I admitted.

At the barbecue, he became decent again. Well, somewhat decent. He proved to be a fairly independent companion, getting into conversations with strangers, except his argumentative nature shined through. Eva was there, having managed to leave her dysfunctional relationship with the ex-con in Manhattan for the afternoon. Now meeting #98 for the first time, she chuckled as she eavesdropped on the debates he was getting himself into. I tried not to pay attention.

“Oh my,” Eva said, giggling.

“What did he say now?” I asked.

Eva repeated what she heard in her best gruff Russian accent, “‘There is no Russian mafia.’”

Later, #98 sat next to me and put his arm around me as he talked with some native Brooklynites. Although the natives appeared to be a little more startled by #98 than he was by them, everyone appeared mutually fascinated. Again, I tried to not pay attention.

At one point, #98 pulled me to him to get my attention and said to the natives, “Look, don’t you think we look good together? Isn’t she beautiful?”

The natives looked a bit put on the spot.

“Are you Russian, too?” they asked me.

“No, I’m suburban American,” I said.

“Oh, you look like you could be Russian.”

I imagined Russian supermodel Natalia Vodianova. “Oh, thank you,” I said.

Just before sunset, Eva and I decided to go. “I just have to wait for [#98],” I said.

“Why?” she asked. She hadn’t realized I'd brought him.

When #98 came out, he suggested we walked back over the Williamsburg bridge. Even though she appeared to be put off by his presence, Eva was game, so we started walking. #98 put his arm around me and, putting his face close to mine, said, “Don’t we look good together? Shouldn’t we be together?”

Looking disgusted, Eva said, “I hope not. Not with those holes in your shirt. I think Tara can do a lot better. And you’re drunk.” And then she looked at me as if to ask where I’d found this guy.

Signs of Hope: What was up with all his talk of togetherness?

Red Flags: Although I could see past the Neanderthal in him, clearly, others couldn’t. Maybe I was ignoring the obvious.

Turning Point: When the extreme groping started. I really didn’t know what to make of it.

Diagnosis: For him: He’s grabby, that’s for sure. But what he wants is unclear to me.

For me: Maybe I’m fooling myself. I really do want to believe that he wants to be together. At any rate, this was going to be an interesting walk home.

Mr. Unavailable #98: Neanderthal No More?

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

It was Saturday morning after my date with Mr. Clueless and I was at The Bean trying to write but really looking to distract myself. I texted #98 to tell him he should swing by.

Let me rewind and refresh. About eight months before, #98 and I had stopped talking after he’d come onto me—brushing his hand along my cheek, putting his head on my shoulder, etc.—then, upon not getting an eager response, he’d picked a fight (specifically, he’d accused me of being selfish and self-centered because I took myself to the gym).

The not talking had lasted about four months, ending when I had a mouse problem and realized I needed him. Despite his Neanderthal-ness, I always knew his heart was in the right place and he’d help out a friend in need. We let bygones be bygones. He’d come over and retrieve my dead mice, I’d make tea and we’d talk.

We were about six months into being friends again when I texted him from The Bean (On a side note, once muscle-bound, he’d stopped exercising completely and everything had gone to flab).

“I went on some dates,” he said in his Russian accent, which effortlessly removed English grammatical articles as well as, no doubt, articles of women’s clothing.  

He told me about his dates from a Russian dating site: “I liked one of them—she seemed very sweet—but she didn’t like me,” he said. I was proud of him. I already knew about his tendency to either sleep around or fall in love with crazy women, so I thought maybe he was turning over a new leaf, trying to actually go on dates with nice girls.

And then I told him about my recent dates: “One seemed really interested but then I never heard from him and the other couldn’t even spring for snacks.”

He shook his head. “This is terrible, just terrible,” he said.

The next night, he texted me to ask if I wanted to go see The Dictator, saying that if I got the tickets online, he’d pay for them.

We met up outside The Bean and walked toward Union Square. Early for the movie, we killed time getting coffee across the street at Starbucks. I had to mail my nephew’s birthday present and was looking for a box. There were a pile of them in front of a Starbucks, so I grabbed one. #98 teased me all the way back to the theater.

“You’re going to carry your box around for the rest of the night? You pick garbage up off the street and carry it around? Do you always do this…” It was the equivalent of a boy pulling a girl’s hair on the playground. So, like the girl on the playground, I hit him.

After the movie, he asked if I wanted to get something to eat. He’d already put away a caramel macchiato, a bucket of popcorn and a Coke, but he still wanted more. I got the feeling that it wasn’t necessarily more food he wanted, but rather, more time with me. He liked me, but I was also no dummy. I knew how lonely he was. It was a loneliness I with which I was familiar.

We went to the Japanese Place above Stuyvesant Place—me, #98 and my box.

“I got so fat,” he said, putting a hand on his belly. “I started riding bike to work. I will be skinny in no time.”

His self-improvement project was admirable. Between that and trying to date nice girls, maybe my Russian Neanderthal was rapidly ascending the evolutionary chain.

And then, after the restaurant, as we walked home, as I held my box, he put his arms around me—all the way around me and the box, which I now held as a kind of security blanket. Just like eight months before, I wasn’t sure how to react. I was attracted to him, sure, but I knew well enough to leave it alone by now.  

I focused on keeping my arms around my box and pretended that this is what guy friends do—walk down the street with their arms around you and your possessions.

We hugged good-bye in front of my building and that was that.

Signs of Hope: Over and over, for the two of us, there have proven to be no signs of hope.

Red Flags: When he was in no hurry to go home and then…

Turning Point: …when he put his arms around me.

Diagnosis: For him: Maybe he’s lonely and attempting to go down our dead-end of a road again. Or maybe he’s changed?

For me: I really want to believe that he’s changed, but, if I’m smart, I won’t go down this dead-end of a road again. 

Mr. Unavailable #140: Mr. Clueless

Vital Stats: 41, 6’2”, bald, blue eyes, thin without being gaunt. I never quite grasped what he did for a living, but it quickly became clear he wasn’t flush with cash, which, to be clear, is fine, depending on how one works around it. Aesthetic:  NYC casual—you know, the kind of guy who hates shopping but manages to choose decent plaid shirts. Demeanor: Clueless

What Happened: We’d arranged to meet at the Barnes & Noble in Union Square to grab a coffee and walk around, which is not exactly my favorite kind of date (the mobile kind of date), but I was feeling the need to be open-minded. When we met up, I sensed a degree of cluelessness—in the first words he said to me, in the way he carried himself, in his lack of initiative.

We were standing in the B&N foyer with him rambling about where he’d just been and how nice it was outside when I decided to jump in, “So, did you want to grab a coffee?” I asked. Maybe he was just nervous.

“Oh, I thought maybe we could get some snacks at Whole Foods and then sit in the park.”

A slight change of plans, but OK. We walked across Union Square and talked easily, probably because I wasn’t feeling particularly interested. But he was cute and so far seemed worth being interested in. In the snack aisle at Whole Foods, we were trying to choose chips.

“How about these?” I said, picking up some pita chips.

“I’d rather have the whole wheat ones,” he said.

“OK, how about blue tortilla chips, too?” I asked.

“Well, maybe we should get a small bag in case we don’t finish all of them,” he said.

And then in the dip aisle...

“How about this olive hummus?” I asked.

“I’d rather have the plain one,” he said.

I let it all slide. Being finicky doesn’t necessarily have to be a deal-breaker.

When we got to the cash register, the cashier rang everything up. "That’s $23.36," she said. He got out his card and I opened my wallet. It was the moment of truth.

“Oh, can I?...”

“Oh,” he said, looking at my wallet. I had a ten exposed. “If you want to give me a ten that’s fine.”

I handed him the ten. That, however, was a deal-breaker. I started planning my exit strategy.

OK, yes, I could have just not offered him any money, but then I may not have found out he was cheap until date number two. Why prolong things?

Now that I’d helped pay for the food, I wanted to at least have some of it. Out on 14^th street, he said he’d rather go to Washington Square Park than stay in Union Square and eat—it was too crowded, he said. Oh my god, I thought.

Walking toward Washington Square, time dragged. It felt like an hour had gone by. I sneaked a look at my watch. It had only been 25 minutes. When we got to the park, there were a number of stone benches that were available for sitting. “How about there? Or there? Or there?” I said.

“Oh, I really need a bench with a back for back support,” he said. We walked all the way to the other side of the park to find a free bench. With each step, I became more and more aware of the passing time. We found a spot near the hare krishnas—it was either them or the group of homeless addicts—and opened the snacks.

My only plan was to fill the time with talk until I was full. We discussed music and concerts and memories from the 80s. Every minute was interminable. I sneaked more glances at my watch—35 minutes passed, then 45, then 60. At 65 minutes, I’d had enough guacamole and hummus and decided it was time. “Well, I’ve gotta get going,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. I heard a slight sting of rejection. “I guess I’ll stay for a little bit longer.” He stood up with me to say good-bye. We hugged.

“It was nice meeting you,” I said. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“You, too,” he said.

Signs of Hope: It’s not like he was repulsive. If he’d been a little more considerate and generous, maybe he would have grown on me.

Red Flags: He wasn’t terribly considerate or generous.

Turning Point: The moment of truth at the cash register. Did he seriously need to take my $10? On a first date? When did so many men stop wanting to make a good first impression?

Diagnosis: For him: I attribute his lack of generosity to cluelessness more than anything else. He made mention of having lived with a girlfriend at one point, so he’s certainly available for some kind of relationship.

For me: Whatever his kind of relationship is, I’m not available for it.

Mr. Unavailable #139: Mr. Interested

Vital Stats: 6’2”, 40, full head of dark hair with threads of gray, PhD guy (something having to do with research and electronic medical records). He'd recently relocated to NYC from the Pacific Northwest and either he wasn’t yet spoiled and hadn’t yet realized that New York City was a playground for single men or he was spoiled and had realized it. Aesthetic: Business casual. Demeanor: Something about him—other than his smooth, unlined face—seemed a lot younger than 40.

What Happened: I came out the other side of the weekend during which I was supposed to have been with #113 in pretty fine shape—and with an OKCupid date set for Monday.

#139 and I arranged to meet at a bar on St. Marks. I got there before he did—i.e., he was late. When he walked in, he grinned spontaneously, which made me not care that he was late. Oh, he’s interested, I thought, relaxing into things and then thinking, This is going to be easy.

For the next 90 minutes, sitting on his bar stool with his whole body turned toward me, he didn’t stop grinning at me. Oh, definitely interested, I thought as I exercised my expert body-language-reading skills.

He told me about himself. He’d moved to NYC last fall from Portland, where he’d earned his doctorate. He lived in Kip’s Bay, worked on the Upper East Side, had joined a band and was generally enjoying NYC.

We joked. We laughed. We talked about how because Manhattanites are generally cursed with too-small apartments that don’t allow for dinner parties that Brooklynites with bigger apartments should really be throwing more dinner parties.

“People in Brooklyn need to start an adopt-a-Manhattanite program,” he joked. I laughed. I caught myself throwing in an extra laugh or two in a show of enthusiasm.

My level of interest was at a medium. He was tall and cute and awkward in a good way. The way he hunched over to come down to my level, he appeared uncool, and, seeing as I’m looking for someone uncool, it was good.

At the end, he said he had to get up early to show a VIP around at work. We walked to the corner of 1^st Ave. and St. Marks. He still had that glint of interest in his eye and said, “So, this was fun, would you like to get together again?”

“That sounds great,” I said.

“Let me get your number,” he said. He slid next to me, standing close and holding his phone so I could watch him put my number in. His arm touched mine.

We hugged and he nipped me with an awkward cheek kiss that got part of my ear. I turned and walked toward home. Thirty seconds later, he texted me: “Thanks for the fun time!”

I texted back: “Aw, thank you!”

And then a wave of doubt washed over me as I remembered something #111 had once said: “If a guy texts you immediately after a date, it means you won’t be hearing from him again.” It had proved to be true on at least one occasion…but this guy seemed so interested.

Signs of Hope: He was acting so interested. And I was acting interested enough.

Red Flags: Something about him did seem really young.

Turning Point: Four days passed after my date with #139 and I’d heard nothing. Maybe he was just really good at acting interested.

Diagnosis: For him: Why act so interested if you’re not? Maybe in his nine months in New York, he had been spoiled. Or maybe he’d arrived that way.

For me: It’s really no big loss because I was on the fence anyway. But it does give me pause…

Mr. Unavailable #113: The Sacrifice

See The Phoenix Rises, Paper Perfect, More Nouveau, Please, Visions of Sundance, Spring Fever, Fantasyland and It’s Purely Textual for the background on this one.

After waiting all day Thursday for #113 to text back with a time he was free and hearing nothing, I went to bed, depressed.

At 11:56 p.m., he texted:

#113: So crazy today, tomorrow?

I waited until Friday morning to respond. This time, I responded much more guardedly.

Me: Sure. Let me know when you’re free.

I went about my day, but, again, the hours went by. And as they did, it became more and more clear that I was not a priority for him. I was merely an option. 

This was the kind of thing that was crazy-making. Didn't he come to New York primarily to see me? Or did I have a super-inflated ego? Or was that what he had wanted me to believe? I reviewed his past texts: He wanted to spend more time with me…he wanted to take me back to Arizona with him. No, I wasn't crazy.

I met up with Eva and her friend Yasmine, who was in from L.A., for dinner. I’d hung out with Yasmine before. She’d written the most-read relationship article on The Huffington Post and was about to come out with a book that had the same title as the article.

When she’d originally sent us a message over Facebook saying she was coming back to town and wanted to hang, I replied regretfully but optimistically:  “Hey Girl, I have a boy in from out of town. I probably won’t be able to hang out on Friday but I’ll let you know if anything changes. I’m sorry to miss you! XoT”

I followed it up with a different kind of message Thursday night: “I may see you after all. The guy is MIA.”

And then Friday afternoon I texted her: “Hey, let’s meet for dinner.”

By the time we all met up for dinner at the Thai place on Houston at 9:30 p.m., I still hadn’t heard anything from #113.

“I’m trying to decide where my line is,” I said. “Unfortunately, I think I’ve crossed it. I’m done. If he contacts me now, forget it.”

“You can keep it light and polite,” Yasmine said. “’Hey, I’m already out with some peeps. Catch you next time.’ I want to see a photo of this guy.”

I pulled up his Facebook profile on my phone and prefaced the photo-reveal with what I always preface it with. “He photographs really well,” I said. “He doesn’t really look like this. He looks all suave and charismatic and confident in his photos but, in real life, he’s really nerdy and kind of hunched over and more humble looking.”

I gave her my phone so she could see. “Oh, no, no, no,” she said. “Look at the ego on that one. Oh, no.”

“But that’s not really what he looks like,” I said.

“But that’s what he puts forth,” she said. “No. I’m dating a neuroscientist and the egos on these guys are astronomical. This guy is rich and he probably has women undeservedly flocking to him—especially if that’s what he wants them to see.”

It was true. I wasn’t so attracted to him when I first met him, but all the stuff that surrounded him—primarily the air of nouveau docteur riche and intelligence—was like some kind of drug. And then, on top of that, when I saw how truly nerdy he was, I found him endearing. I thought he was different. I thought he was a nice Jewish neurologist without the power-tripping attitude. Clearly, I was wrong.

At 10:18 p.m., he texted. I read it and then sullenly handed my phone to Yasmine, shaking my head slowly. She read it out loud so Eva could hear.

“’Friend is playing at the living room on Ludlow street. Come join. If you can,’” she read.

I was angry. “If you can”? Where was the, “I want to take you back to Arizona with me”? Not only that, but, obviously, he was able to make plans with his friends but he was not able to make plans with me—he was only able to fit me in where it was convenient.

I started to formulate a light-and-polite response about how I was busy: “Hey…” I started.

“Don’t even respond,” Yasmine said. “He’s on a power trip. To see if he can get you to come running when he wants you to. To see if you’re up for doing everything on his terms. He’s not going to make a plan or want to know your schedule. He’s incapable of a relationship.”

I was done. But what was the best way to be done? “Is not responding the best way to cut it off?” I asked, slicing my hand through the air.

“He doesn’t deserve a response. What a loser,” Eva said.

“Yeah,” I said, agreeing, “why postpone inevitable pain.”

“I don’t even get that,” Eva said. Eva was still inexorably intertwined with the ex-con. They were no longer seeing each other romantically, but they couldn’t manage to extricate themselves from the mutually fueled drama.

“Why bother. He’s not what I thought he was,” I said, “or what he pretends to be.”

And then Yasmine described how she exorcises men such as these from her reality. “What I like to do is envision myself as if in old Aztec times. I’m wrapped in the Aztec skins or fabrics or whatever they are, with the beads around my neck and everything and I take the guy and put him in a basket and there’s, you know, I imagine the pyramids that they had and I walk up the steps of the pyramid and I place the basket at the top and then I offer him to the Aztec gods or whatever and then I walk back down. And I leave him there. And then if I ever start to think about him, I just imagine him up on the top of the pyramid in that basket, where I left him.”

“Like a sacrifice,” I said. “I have to give him to the universe to let the universe know that I’m not having any of this.”

“Exactly,” she said.

So I went home and sacrificed him. It's only been a few days, so I figure he's currently suffering from exposure.

Signs of Hope: For me? Because I’m not putting up with any of this bullshit? Lots.

Red Flags: The Mr. Unavailables just keep piling up. Maybe this will be my last Unavailable experience. No, this will be my last unavailable experience.

Turning Point: When he texted me Friday night with no apology, no regrets for being flaky, nothing, except to act like I was his beck-and-call girl.

Diagnosis: For him: He has a chronic and terminal case of unavailability.
For me: Well, I’m not taking it personally, which is a small miracle, and, because he’s now stranded at the top of an Aztec pyramid, he can no longer bother me. I’m moving on—quickly, in fact. I already have a date on Monday. 

Mr. Unavailable #113: It's Purely Textual

See The Phoenix Rises, Paper Perfect, More Nouveau, Please, Visions of Sundance, Spring Fever, Girls’ Night Out, Part I and Girls’ Night Out, Part II for the background on this one.

It was a month and a half past my last communication with #113 and I was bored. I’d finished “Calling in the One” and had shot out of the find-the-one gate with one sleepover and a revolving door of crushes, all of which got crushed—one turned out to be gay, another was a misdirected crush on a friend who’d recently split with his girlfriend. I was itchy and wanted attention. Although I’d kind of pushed the door closed on #113 with my Valentine’s Day text, the door was really still ajar. 

It was early April and, after resisting the urge for more than a week, I texted him a photo of some advertising that used the phrase “small batches.” It was our inside joke. I was fishing for a renewed flirtation.

Me: Small Batches.

He responded two hours later:

#113: So funny. Everything in small batches. Large batches not good?

He didn’t appear to be taking the bait. Who’d blame him, though. A month and a half before, I’d thrown cold water on his textual advances.

But then, two hours after that:

#113: Need a batch of you.

He bit.

Me: Yes, I think you do.

#113: May come back to NYC next month.

Me: Oh, do. It would be nice to see you.

With his history of disappearing, however, I’d believe it when I saw it.

Five days later, it was like he had a sixth sense for when I was up to no good because he texted me while I was shimmying closer and closer to #136 at R Bar.

#113: Happy Easter. Are you out tonight?

It was weird how he knew.

We went back and forth for another two weeks going on about our inside joke. And then I got this one Sunday morning:

#113: Would be nice to see you this morning. Read paper with me. It sunshine here. Blue sky.

This time, I was the one who bit. I could feel my guard coming down.

Me: Mmm. That sounds good. Reading the paper. I wish I were there.

We went back and forth about sharing the paper and the parts we’d read, not read and make fun of—kind of like a bad New York Times ad.

And then for the next week, we reverted back to “small batches” jokes. It was silly but it kept me entertained. I wanted attention and I was getting it.

One Saturday night, I’d done the same-old, same-old—dinner with a couple of acquaintances—and was walking home feeling lonely and tired—of the same-old. And then I got this:

#113: Would be nice to be around you longer.

Me: I agree.

#113: Like you came back with me.

At that moment, that was exactly what I wanted to hear. I nearly cried. Go back to Arizona with him? For a few days? Why not? Somehow, my decision felt monumental, as if I’d just decided I’d move there. I waited until I got home and, sitting on my bed, I wrote him back.

Me: Maybe I could.

Sunday rolled around.

Then Monday.

Tuesday.

Wednesday.

On Thursday, I went to see my shrink.

“This is the doctor, right?” she said after I told her the latest and shared how baffled I was by his silence. “You have to throw out all the rules when you’re dealing with doctors. Right now, he’s figuring it out. He’s rearranging his schedule to be able to come. Just wait it out. He’ll get back in touch when he knows when he’s coming.”

Friday.

Saturday.

Sunday.

Monday.

Tuesday.

And then, on Wednesday:

#113: I am back in NYC next week. See you

He was arriving in a week.

My mind went into overdrive, making me believe these things:

He was coming purely to see me. We would get together Wednesday night for dinner and then spend all day Thursday and Friday together if I could get Thursday off. Oh, and Saturday and Sunday. And then maybe I’d consider flying back to Arizona with him for a few days—if he asked.

I was planning my outfit, doing a little shopping, laundering my bedding. And then Wednesday rolled around. As the hours ticked by and I heard nothing, I began to edit the story. Maybe we’d get together for a late dinner…maybe we’d get together for dessert…maybe he didn’t come here to just see me. My illusions cracked. He texted at 11:30, after I’d gone to bed, to say he was there and ask when I was free on Thursday. I texted him back Thursday morning.

Me: Morning! I have to go to work but am done at 5. Maybe lunch?

Then, a few hours later:

Me: Maybe I can leave work early, too.

And a few minutes after that:

Me: It looks like I can get out at 1. Now the question is: Are you free?

1 p.m. rolled around, then 2 p.m. I stayed at work, went and got a manicure, came back to work.

Nothing. Nothing. And more nothing.

Signs of Hope: According to the text messages I got from him, he is technically somewhere in New York City.

Red Flags: I was expecting a passionate reunion. This is an extremely dispassionate non-reunion.

Turning Point: When Wednesday rolled into Thursday and Thursday dragged on and on and on.

Diagnosis: For him: For the last 48 hours anyway, he’s been nothing but unavailable.
For me: Is it me? Am I being too eager? He did say he wanted to take me back to Arizona with him, didn’t he? Last time, he was the one in Fantasyland, but this time, am I the one in Fantasyland? And was I lured there or did I just go willingly?