Mr. Unavailable #143: Real or Reflected

See The C Word for the background on this one.

Having just insulted my date, #143 and I got off the 6 train at 86^th street and walked over to the Met. If I had demeaned his income, he shook it off pretty well because, inside at the ticket counter, he proudly slapped $2 down for admission for both of us.

“Don’t you like how authoritatively I give my dollar?” he said. I smiled. We looked around, and, like smug natives, scoffed at the tourists paying the full $20 suggested donation.

Being an architect, #143 was interested in the Saraceno sculpture on the roof garden. We got conflicting directions from different guards and eventually located an elevator that would take us to the top. Crowding onto it with a bunch of out-of-towners, there was something of a we’re-in-this-together vibe. The two of us. In the gigantic Met. Trying to find our way. Together. Maybe you can do this. He’s kind of cute. He’s definitely fun. And he clearly doesn’t take things too personally, I thought.

Once on the roof, I remembered the last time I was up there—when I was with #88 seven years ago. In the annals of my heartbreak, he’s pretty much at the top. The contrast between my feelings for my date then (strong) and now (weak) was so stark, every time #143 moved near me, I moved away. Afraid he might try to kiss me or something, I acted as if closely surveying the sculpture. 

I walked around it—a malformed Rubik’s Cube made of metal and twisted out of shape. Its octagonal surfaces were either reflective or open, so I was never quite sure if I was looking at the mirror image of the people looking at the sculpture or staring directly at them. Through one of the openings, I spotted #143 on the other side. I smiled and made a slight waving motion, but he didn’t respond. And then I realized he was next to me, looking at me. A moment later, I was saved by an announcement saying the museum was about to close.

“I guess we’d better go,” I said.

We took the stairs down and out, emerging onto the Fifth Avenue aftermath of the Puerto Rican Day parade. For those who don’t know, the PRD Parade has a bad reputation (for mild riots, occasional gang rape, that sort of light criminal fare), which inspired a line of inappropriate jokes between #143 and I that loses everything in the retelling. I laughed, however. A lot.

The police were just starting to remove the barricades, so we pick our way through them, the litter, the straggling families and the drunks yelling incoherently.

“Alice and Harry are going to be like, ‘So, how was the date?” And you’ll say, “Well, he talked about how little money he made, took me to the Puerto Rican Day parade and made rape jokes.” I laughed. See, he’s funny, I thought. He asked me what I wanted to do next. “Coffee in your neighborhood somewhere?”

“I know! Ice cream,” I said.

We hopped the train and headed back downtown to Emack and Bolio’s on Houston. I sprung for ice cream and then he walked me home. It was a real date. With a meal, an event, an ice cream “nightcap” and a walking-home. I hadn’t had one of those in a while. The sun was setting, summer was imminent, we’d survived the aftermath of the Puerto Rican Day Parade intact. He hugged me good-bye and asked if I wanted to get together again. “Yes, that would be fun,” I said.

He seems to like me. Maybe I can like him, too. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I really can.

Signs of Hope: We joked, we laughed.

Red Flags: I couldn’t imagine wanting to kiss him but maybe I would later.

Turning Point: Toward the end of the date, when he was telling making me laugh.

Diagnosis: For him: Like he said earlier in the date, he has “the stink of commitment” on him.

For me: I have hope, but are my feelings organic or just mimicking his? Real or just reflected?