See Trigger Man-Boy for the
background on this one.
Although things
looked promising with #185, I didn’t want to entirely rule out #178. One Friday
night just before Christmas, with #185 having gone off on a two-week cross-country
excursion to visit family, I headed to Williamsburg with Kevin for a
gathering of like-minded Brooklynites.
Inside, I zeroed
in on #178 sitting at a table behind me. Casually turning in his direction as
if surveying the room, I momentarily stepped back as I laid eyes on him, in mock
surprise to see him. I briefly introduced him to “my friend Kevin” and then the two of us discussed holiday vacation
plans.
“I’m going home
to Massachusetts to see my mom’s family for five days,” he said, “although now
I wish I weren’t going for so long. But I spent five days over Thanksgiving
with my dad, so now…”
“Oh, equal
time,” I said. “Of course.” Seeing as I hadn’t made much of an effort to see my
parents during the holidays in eight years, his reluctance to go was more than
forgivable.
“What are you
doing?” he asked. Maybe it was the crowd of people around us, but lurking
somewhere inside him seemed to be the nerves of a Chihuahua. His eyes darted
around and he couldn’t fully hold still. Maybe he was cold. Or maybe I was
making him nervous. Again, entirely forgivable.
“I’m staying
here,” I said with a tint of shame.
“That’s great.
I wish I was doing that,” he said.
In group
formation, we walked the several blocks to Action Burger. All the while, #178
and I maintained spitting distance. Filing into the shop, he looked a little
lost in the crowd. I pulled a chair over so he could sit by me. I felt a bit
like I was overcompensating for his lack. I tried to engage him in conversation
about the décor, which consisted entirely of comic-book paraphernalia. “Were
you a comic book guy?” I asked.
In our large,
exuberant group, he became smaller and smaller, shrinking before my eyes. It took
work to keep him engaged. At one point, a girl who was wedged in a corner seat called
to him, “Hey [#178], can you get me a knife?”
#178 got up
and, looking puzzled, spun around and walked toward the counter where they were
taking orders. He glanced around the immediate vicinity, turned back around,
came back, sat down and said, “I don’t know where they have them. They might
have them behind the counter or something.”
Another guy in
our group got up and the girl called, “Hey, can you get me a knife?”
“You got it.”
He walked straight up to the counter and asked, “Hey, can I get a knife?”
Moments later, over the head of #178, he passed the girl a clean white plastic knife.
Who knew that one little plastic knife could entirely decimate a crush? But it did. A little shy is fine, but for me—for what I want—this was unforgivable. I
stopped making an effort. I actually felt some relief. After dinner, walking
out the double doors with Kevin, I said, “Did you see…the thing with the
knife.”
“Yeah,” he said,
frowning in active commiseration.
“Am I
overreacting?”
“No,” he said.
“Not. At. All.”
Unlike previous times, I
didn’t make any special attempt to say good night to #178. I waved toward him
and the other remnants of the group standing on the corner, “See you later.
Have a good night. Happy holidays.” And then I disappeared with Kevin down into
the subway to catch the L train home.
Signs of Hope:
There was definite interest. On both sides.
Red Flags:
There was just too much to forgive.
Turning Point: The
knife incident was unforgivable.
Diagnosis: He
may be available, but he’s not what I’m looking for.
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