Mr. Unavailable #185: Cracking the Code

See The Voice for the background on this one.

Speaking of passive, I was employing a new dating tactic. A little background: I have a problem with men who don’t pay. Often, I offer to help pay because it feels like the right thing to do. But my offer is disingenuous because I don’t really want to pay. And then if they take me up on it, I don’t like them anymore. It’s a form of entrapment. By offering, I lead my dates to believe I’m a willing Go-Dutcher when, in reality, it’s a test. And that’s not very nice. When we move in together, I’ll happily pay half of the rent, but in the beginning, I want to be wooed.

So when the bill came at The Place and the waitress laid it down next to me (Come on, sister, can’t you give a girl a break), it took every cell in my body to sit there and do nothing. #185 reached over, took the billfold, got out his card and placed it in it. I squirmed, fighting the urge to reach into my purse, swim my arm around in a fake hunt for my wallet and say, “Oh, can I…?” Instead, I leaned forward and said, “Thank you for dinner. This was lovely.”

By the time we got to Milk and Cookies, it was even harder for me to resist the urge to “get dessert because you got dinner.” But I did. He shelled out the $10 for two cookie sandwiches and I thanked him, feeling like a gold digger.

The bakery wasn’t particularly customer-oriented. Every table was covered with boxes for holiday orders. A worker wrapping them was blind to the paying customers hovering in the corner trying to avoid the rain outside (that would be us). As we licked at our desserts and chatted about our our mutual love of the theater, I was hoping #185 would take care of things. But he didn’t. A moment later, I stepped toward the worker and said, sweet-as-an-ice-cream-cookie-sandwich, “Hey, can we just squeeze in right here?” He frowned and grumbled but moved some boxes anyway. We sat down.

“I’m glad you did that,” #185 said. He pressed his leg against mine. I tingled. Despite whatever prejudices my head was holding against him, my body felt only chemistry. I gazed into his crimson countenance. His gaze held mine. I smiled. He smiled back, breaking into his big Wallace-and-Gromit grin.

We walked to the 4^th Street subway station and stood underground at the fork between uptown and downtown. “Which way are you going?” I asked.

He gestured over his shoulder in the uptown direction with an exaggerated nonchalance. I giggled. I held open my arms and he put his arms around me, holding me extra tight for extra long. He gave me a take-charge kiss on the cheek and we said good-bye.

I enumerated his qualities to Kevin the next day.

“He’s kind of dorky and pretty goofy-looking but he’s also got some edge. And he paid for everything. And he’s capable of prolonged eye contact.”

“Um, ok. That’s all good. But are you attracted to him?” he asked. He was subtly referring to my tendency to talk myself into liking guys I wasn’t particularly attracted to.

“When he pressed his leg against mine, there was definitely something there.”

“Oh, really?”

“Chemistry. Jerk. Enough of it to see what happens next.”

Signs of Hope: Definite chemistry.

Red Flags: I felt like I had to take charge a couple of times.

Turning Point: When he pressed his leg against mine.

Diagnosis: Maybe I’ve finally cracked the code. Maybe the key to finding a capable relationship participant is to date a 39-year-old (on the verge of a self-reflective “why-am-I-single” 40!) New Jersey commuter (stability!) who’s chemically—as opposed to factually—attractive (less competition!).