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.
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