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?