Mr. Unavailable #185: Inadequate Halves

See The Voice, Cracking the Code, Quasi-Quadrille, Imperfections, Cheap Empanadas, Slow and Steady..., An Upward Trend, Be Mine, A Downward Trend and Parsing and Diagramming for the background on this one.

I wrote to him at noon on Saturday: “Hey there, I just found your phone [a lie]. Let me know how you want to coordinate a retrieval [note the lack of emotion]. Hope you're having a great day [a touch of insincerity]. Xo”

Later that day he replied: “Hey you, Clearly my phone prefers to stay there. How about dinner Monday night?” 

And then on Monday: “Hey you, I was poking around looking for dinner ideas and I came across this place. I don't know if it is because of st. patrick's day and all the irish soda bread running through my veins, but it caught my eye. What do you think! Slainte!”

We never made it to dinner. On Monday, he came over and we started talking. It all seemed innocent enough. “Blah, blah, blah… If you could work with anyone, who would it be? Blah blah blah.” I forget who he named, but I said Woody Allen. Blah blah blah.

We went on like this for an hour. At one point, I offered some token of affection—I forget exactly what, maybe a head on his shoulder or a hand on a leg—and it wasn’t unwelcome but it wasn’t exactly welcome either. There was some more blah, blah, blah and then he said he hadn’t slept well all weekend.

“Yeah, the crying girl on Friday probably didn’t help,” I joked.

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking a lot about that. I felt like an asshole on Friday.”

“No. Why?” I said in a helpful—almost codependent—way that tried to imply of course you’re not an asshole.

“I felt like a jerk because I said I wanted to move forward, but I don’t.”

Ah, that familiar stabbing feeling.

“Oh,” I said. “Why?”

“I’m just not feeling it enough, I guess. And it’s hard because you’re so great.” He said a few more things about how great I was, but I’d tuned out, thinking: I don’t need you to tell me I’m great. I know I’m great. And I don’t give a shit that this is difficult for you.

I just nodded my head and smiled. I was going for an inscrutable expression and I may have succeeded because he began to look more uncomfortable. Maybe he was expecting me to be upset like I had been on Friday. “OK. Well, good luck with everything,” I said.

“Yeah, good luck with Woody Allen,” he said, grinning, possibly attempting to lighten things up.

I kept my eyes fixed on him and remained motionless. My lack of reaction must have confused him. He thought I didn’t understand what he was referring to.

“You know, getting Woody Allen to direct your movie?”

I nodded shortly, still smiling—I was less inscrutable, though, because the nod was saying I don’t need your luck, asshole.

He got the message and shifted on my sofa. He kept talking, as if, eventually, if he talked enough, I would make it all OK for him. Instead, I got up, stretched, plucked his coat from where it was hanging on the back of my closet door and held it out to him.

“Don’t forget anything,” I said as he reached for it. He winced. He put his coat on and held open his arms for a hug. My arms were folded and I shook my head.

“Oh, come on!” he said.

I was frowning by now. I followed him to the door and wondered if I would regret being cold, so I said, “Oh, OK,” and held open my arms. We embraced. I felt nothing, only like I was hugging a lump of inadequacy hidden in a shell of a man. I patted him platonically on the back, like I would with someone I didn’t really want to touch.

He stepped out and turned his big, shiny red face toward me. I closed the door.

After that, I admit, I kind of freaked out a little bit, mostly along the lines of “Why does this keep happening to me?” “Right at the three month mark?” “They just bolt?” “With little sign it’s about to happen?” “No conversations?” “Nothing is actually wrong.”

Just for once, I’d like a dating situation to end because of something real. Like because he beats me. Or I beat him. Either way. You know, something clear. So when someone asked, “Why did they break up?” the answer would be, “There was violence in the relationship.” And then there would be a look of horror and no more questions. However, what I always seem to face is, “Why’d you break up?” And then I usually shrug and say, “I don’t know.” And then there are more questions, none of which I can answer because I really don’t know.

I trudged outside into what had become a slushy snowstorm, forgetting even my umbrella, and met up with Eva at The Village Organic. By the time I got there, my shoes were soaked through and she was there with three people, two I didn’t know and one I didn’t like. Under the circumstances, I figured it was OK to be a little rude. I pulled up a chair next to her and leaned in, getting her full attention.

“What the fuck?” I said.

“You told me on Saturday you didn’t think he was the one. He did for you what you could not do for yourself.”

She was right. I wasn't missing anything. By the end of the night, I was laughing.

Signs of Hope: He seemed all excited about going to dinner at that Irish place.

Red Flags: It was starting to feel like things were going backward rather than forward. Also: When they start an email with “Hey, you,” that must be a red flag.

Turning Point: When he said he didn’t want to go forward.

Diagnosis: For me: Why do I keep picking these guys? On a brighter note, at least I don’t need a guy to tell me I’m great.

For him: Like the psychic in California said almost two years ago, he’s another half person. I must be afraid of whole people. Or maybe there really aren’t that many whole people out there—and most people just settle for inadequate halves, thinking two halves make a whole.

Mr. Unavailable #185: Parsing and Diagramming

See The Voice, Cracking the Code, Quasi-Quadrille, Imperfections, Cheap Empanadas, Slow and Steady..., An Upward Trend, Be Mine and A Downward Trend for the background on this one.

Even though I was officially #185’s “girlfriend,” my insecurities seeped back in. With no plans for the week, I sent him a text on a Tuesday: I miss you.

He texted back: Well, what are we gonna do about that?

Date #17: We met up on Wednesday at the Arepas bar that he had wanted to take me to before. He’d had a rough day at work and, after dinner and after coming over to my place, decided to take an early-ish train home. “What do you want to do this weekend? Jerz on Friday? Or I could come in on Saturday,” he said. I opted for Saturday, saying he should come with me to Eva’s birthday party in Brooklyn.

“I’m game,” he said.

Everything seemed fine.

Date #18: We met at an Allen Ginsberg exhibit at a gallery next to Washington Square Park. Something was off. It wasn’t like when we’d visited other museums. There was very little of that cozy, huggy vibe. As he wandered the exhibit consistently ten steps ahead of me, I thought, Maybe this is what always happens. Maybe this is normal. We had an early dinner at Tacqueria on University and he told me he’d had a terrible night the night before. I asked him what it was all about.

“General soul sickness,” he said. To alleviate the symptoms, he’d taken himself to a movie at a theater only a block from me. That’s weird, why didn’t he call me if it was right nearby?

“I loved the movie, Stoker,” he said. “Want to go see it? I’d love to see it again. How about we go next Friday?”

He wants me to see it with him, that’s good.

We killed time before the party watching a movie and making out—with good technique all around. Waiting for the various subway connections to the party, we were huggy again.

Then, on the G train, he asked me what stop we were getting off at.

“Greenpoint,” I said.

“I know we’re going to Greenpoint. You seem to think I don’t know where I’m going. I used to hang around here all the time and I even...”

Just then, we began to pull into the station. He stopped talking as soon as he saw the tiled name on the station wall: Greenpoint.

“Nevermind,” he said. And then he laughed at himself. We walked down Green Street toward the party. Maybe he still had something to prove. “I dated a girl who lived on this street once,” he said.

Once more, I felt very far away from him. At the party, he seemed to be more interested in one of my friends than he was in me. Maybe he was nervous. Or maybe I’d taken things public too soon. The ride home was similarly distancing as he spoke of how gorgeous Anne Hathaway was. Until that moment, I was one of the few women out there who didn’t despise her. That night, we went to bed without incident—sexual or otherwise—and had brunch the next morning at Peels. It was crowded and there was a wait, but neither of us seemed to mind.

Date #19: The next day, Monday, we had plans to go to the opera and then, after, he was planning to stay over because the opera ended so late. But that morning, he emailed me saying he'd been in such a rush leaving his apartment that he’d forgotten his to-go bag at home. I knew he was lying. When we met later, disingenuity continued to hang in the air. He referred to us as “young lovers going to the opera,” said he bragged to his friends about having a biscuit brunch at Peels with a hot chick and told me I looked like a vision. But there was no feeling behind any of it. It felt mechanical.

Date #20: He’d chosen a place for dinner that turned out to have been torn down. There was a big hole in the ground where it once was. It only added to his identity as an out-of-town yahoo who didn’t know where anything was. We had dinner at Palanino’s, where he was noticeably disgruntled.

“It’s the crowd,” he said as we sat at the bar. Suddenly he minded crowds?

We saw Stoker at the Sunshine and he stayed over. The next morning, Saturday, we began to fool around but he seemed lost as to what to do. I could no longer contain my frustration—sexual or otherwise.

“So,” I began, “ do you think you’d be interested in having sex at some point?

“Absolutely,” he said. “It’s just been a while so I’m out of practice.”

I felt better and said so. “I’m glad we had this little talk. I feel better. Do you feel better?”

“I feel better if you feel better,” he said.

We’d made plans to hit a friend’s gallery that morning. He said he wanted to go but wanted to get home at a reasonable hour, too. As we walked through Chelsea, discussing the positives and negatives of city living, he said, “I’d be perfectly happy getting married, getting a house out in the ‘burbs and having a few kids."

I had an invisible seizure. A life in the suburbs was my worst nightmare. “Yeah, I definitely want a dog,” I said, as if a dog was just the completion of his suburban dream.

After a few gallery shows, we met up with Kevin, I introduced them, #185 headed home and Kevin and I went for coffee.

Kevin and I were firmly on the same page about the whole kids/suburbs thing.

“I don’t think he’s the one,” I said a little sadly.

“I don’t think he is at all,” Kevin said. “I just see you with someone more…a little more dynamic.”

Date #21: …was forgettable. 

Date #22: It was a Friday. He came over and we had bad Chinese food and then watched the movie Bernie. It was around 11 p.m. and suddenly he said, “I’m gonna head home.” I had that sick feeling I get when I know something is over.

“Why?” I asked.

“I’m feeling allergic to the cat.”

“I can give you allergy medication,” I said.

“OK,” he said.

That was the least enthusiastic response I’d ever heard. “Do you really want to go home because of allergies? Why do you really want to go home?”

“I feel like I have no time for myself on weekends. I just want to get stuff done at home.”

“I understand that,” I said. “I understand that you need time for yourself. Is that really the reason?”

“Yes,” he said.

“I just want to know. Are we going forward or backward?”

“We’re going forward,” he said.

I was relieved. Maybe it wasn’t over.

After he left, I began to feel sick again. I called Eva and we arranged to meet for breakfast. After I got off the phone with her, I saw his phone. He’d left it behind. Again. Except this time, I groaned. A part of me just didn’t want to have to deal with him. At all.

The next morning at breakfast, I said, “I don’t think he’s the one.” And then I told Eva about his sex issues. We parsed and diagrammed and I concluded, “I’d be willing to work on it with him if he is willing to work on it.” By the end of the conversation, I’d talked myself into sticking with it.

Signs of Hope: I’m willing to work on it…

Red Flags: …but is he?

Turning Point: When he announced he was going home after bad Chinese and Bernie.

Diagnosis: For me: Maybe, deep down, I really do think he’s a suburban yahoo.

For him: Maybe his issues are deeper and more prolific than I realize.

Mr. Unavailable #185: A Downward Trend

See The Voice, Cracking the Code, Quasi-Quadrille, Imperfections, Cheap Empanadas, Slow and Steady..., An Upward Trend and Be Mine for the background on this one.

We girls don’t like to share the bad stuff about the guys we’re dating until things are already clearly headed downhill. Such was the case with #185. A few things I may have failed to mention: 

• He never complimented me but wasn’t shy about saying if he thought someone else was pretty (which means I now have a resentment against Anne Hathaway). 
• He was always bringing up his last ex-girlfriend. The one from two years ago. And other ex-girlfriends. And ex-crushes. 
• He liked stupid jokes (When we saw Argo, he thought the joke “Argo fuck yourself” was hilarious).
• When we kissed, well, while it had definitely improved from the very beginning, but more often than not, he’d lose focus and I’d be left having to work my way around his wayward technique. 
• He not only lived a five-minute walk from his parents, but, up until six months before, he’d been living with them.

Date #15: He met me downtown where I was hanging out with Eva. He didn't know it, but she’d rearranged her schedule to meet him. While I was in the bathroom at the cafe, he’d told her “Blah blah blah… now that I’m dating Tara…blah blah blah.” We thought that was significant. Still, I wanted more.

We took the bus uptown and went to dinner at Yerba Buena, on Kevin’s recommendation. It was much fancier than I thought it’d be, so I just ordered a couple of appetizers. Somehow, during dinner, he began talking about his last ex-girlfriend. The one from two years ago. He felt bad for hurting her, he said. He began to tear up as he conducted his own rhetorical conversation. “Did I love her? Yes. Am I grateful for everything she did for me? Yes. Do I think we were meant to be together? No.”

As he spoke, I went far, far away, to a safer place. He asked for the check and said, “We’re going to have to take a break on these dinners now that I’m going to have to deal with some major dental bills.” I got up, went to the bathroom and searched for some kind of internal restart button. One thought ran over and over in my head: He’s telling me about how he loved her and I have no idea how he feels about me.

As I walked him to the subway later, I hadn’t fully come back from my safe place. “Are you OK?” he asked.

“I’m just tired,” I said.

That night, a two-hour phone conversation with Eva convened. It involved yelling, tears, some minor reprimanding (“You don’t even know how you feel about him,” Eva said, rightly) and a decision. In the spirit of being the change I wanted to see, instead of being needy and demanding, which was how I was feeling, I chose to be generous. Right or wrong, I was doing it for me not him.

Date #16: I emailed him regarding our Friday-scheduled date: 

“I was thinking about tomorrow and considering wooing you with one of three options:

1. Gangster Night: Dinner at the American Prohibition place followed by a mafia flick.

2. La Lumiere du Soir: Bistro dinner with music--at the same time.

3. Summertime in February: We close all my windows, turn up the heat and pretend it's July—with tropical takeout, fruity drinks and a DVD summer classic.”

He wrote back, opting for Gangster Night and saying he had a terrible night sleep (insert foreshadowing here).

That Friday, I dressed in mafia mistress red and we headed to Commerce in the West Village. We ran into a couple of my friends en route. As I spoke to one, I overheard the other saying to #185, “Tara looks gorgeous. Doesn’t she look gorgeous?” I heard him agree. But, later, he didn’t repeat it to me.

Instead, during dinner, he began telling me what felt like a needless story about running into a guy in his office on his way to meet me. And then he said, “I told the guy I was headed to the East Village because I was staying at my girlfriend’s tonight.”

My girlfriend’s tonight… relief washed over me. I was his girlfriend. Back at my place, we had a steamy make-out session on my sofa, but, when we moved to the bedroom, he needed a break. “I’m all in my head,” he said. “I haven’t done this in two years.”

“You haven’t? Wow, I feel special,” I said.

“You are special.”

Signs of Hope: The next night, when I met up with Eva at a party in Greenpoint, I was glowing. “Guess what?” I told her how he casually referred to me as his girlfriend. She screamed and jumped up and down.

Red Flags: The morning after he told me I was special, we had a sexless, lazy loll, brunched at Yaffa Café and returned to my place. He was agitated. “I missed the 3 o’clock train,” he said. He paced across my bedroom and slumped on the desk chair. “I’m not going to get home until after 4. I feel like my whole weekend is gone,” he said. It was only Saturday. I felt less special.

Turning Point: There would have been a turning point had I let myself recognize what was happening.

Diagnosis: For me: I’m so wrapped up in the idea of being someone’s girlfriend, I’m ignoring all the red flags.

For him: He’s so wrapped up in his past, maybe he’s incapable of moving forward.

Mr. Unavailable #185: Be Mine

See The Voice, Cracking the Code, Quasi-Quadrille, Imperfections, Cheap Empanadas, Slow and Steady... and An Upward Trend for the background on this one.

I forget when I first realized that this would be the first time in 17 years that I’d be dating someone during Valentine’s season. It probably occurred to me one day toward the end of January while wandering through Duane Reade. I happened upon the seasonal aisle and, spotting all the V-Day candy, my heart reflexively began to sink. And then my brain kicked in, remembering #185. What a relief.

Valentine’s week was jammed-packed. I’d bought tickets for the Westminster Dog Show and, when #185 balked at going, I invited Nora. At Madison Square Garden, Nora's rebel side kicked in and we sneaked down during the Star Spangled Banner, slipping past a distracted, overly patriotic guard, to be closer to the action. We gorged ourselves on frozen yogurt sundaes and provided our own running commentary. We had mixed feelings when the black Affenpinscher, Banana Joe, from the Toy category, won. We’d been rooting for the St. Bernard. But Banana Joe looked so happy, he won us over…but I digress…

Although I had Valentine’s plans with #185—he’d asked if I wanted to come to his place in Jersey and he’d make me dinner—they didn’t actually fall on Valentine’s Day. That was fine because, to me, that wasn’t the point. Merely to lay claim to a person of the gender to which I was sexually attracted during Valentine’s season was the point.

So, on Valentine’s Day proper, I met up with Eva and headed to a party in Bushwick hosted by a pair of swingers. The female member of the couple was a burlesque dancer and the male member was a librarian. In modern parlance, that meant he was a UX specialist for design firms and ad agencies. And possibly bisexual.

Eva had her eye on a skinny, tattooed guy in a dirty white T-shirt. We couldn’t tell if he was gay or straight. And then Eva’s most recent inappropriate crush arrived, looking like he’d been hit by a bus. Actually, he’d fallen out of a cab and had nearly destroyed his ankle. He was walking with a cane and had huge dark circles under his eyes. I left them at about midnight but texted Eva later.

Me: Did you meet the guy?

Eva: Yes. Although he was shrooming.

Me: So was he gay or straight?

Eva: Both.

Me: Of course.

The next day, I met #185 in the Chase vestibule at Penn Station. He barely said hello and rushed us toward the trains.

“Hi,” I said. “Are we running late?”

“Oh, yeah, we really need to catch the next train,” he said.

When we got to his place, things became much more Valentine-y. A hot make-out session standing in front of his kitchen preceded him making me dinner. As he prepared the chicken breasts, I looked around. He had two plastic keychain passes to Equinox gym hanging from his refrigerator.

“What are those Equinox things on your refrigerator?”

“I joined Equinox about a month ago.”

“Have you gone yet?”

“No,” he said.

I laughed.

He turned around, his hands greasy with chicken liquids, and said, “Why does everyone think that’s so funny?”

I caught myself mid-smile and realized he was serious.

“It’s not you,” I said. “It’s that clichéd thing where people get gym memberships and then never use them.”

“Do I not look like someone who would go to the gym?”

My half smile turned to a look of astonishment. “Are you seriously mad?” I asked.

Clearly, he was the one who thought he didn’t look like someone who would go to the gym.

“I just don’t understand why people laugh when I say that,” he said.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with you,” I said.

We let it drop and he finished making dinner.

I could tell he was still agitated. He didn’t have a kitchen table, so he began rearranging his furniture. His coffee table became the dining table and he placed a stool on one side and a taller chair on the other. He gave me the chair.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a proper setup for dinner,” he said.

“It’s OK. You’ve seen my apartment. I don’t even have a coffee table or any chairs. I have to eat on my sofa.”

He took a breath. “I’m sorry about before,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m so sensitive about it.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It’s OK.” A little while later, he started on a rant against the church.

“Sorry, I don’t even know what your stand is on religion,” he said, without asking what my stand on religion was.

Maybe he was trying to push me away.

After dinner, I got out the Crumbs cupcakes I’d bought for dessert and gave him a Valentine I’d been working on all week. I’d spent $45 in art supplies to make it. Buying a card would have been a lot cheaper, yes, but this had that all-important homemade appeal. Shaped like a heart, his name was on the outside and, inside, I’d fashioned the words “Be Mine” out of heart-shaped glitter. He seemed touched.

We watched a movie, messed around without actually doing it and went to sleep. The next morning, we lingered over breakfast, talking, and he gave me a package of chocolate covered pretzels (that I think he’d gotten for me as a Valentine’s gift although it wasn’t clear) and I caught a noon train because his car was still on the fritz. “I’ll drive you home next time,” he said.

Signs of Hope: He made me dinner.

Red Flags: His sudden anger. That, and we didn’t actually do it.

Turning Point: When I asked him about his gym membership. I was getting to know him, that's for sure.

Diagnosis: As the train left the station, I wasn’t sure if we were getting closer or getting stuck.

Mr. Unavailable #185: An Upward Trend

See The Voice, Cracking the Code, Quasi-Quadrille, Imperfections, Cheap Empanadas and Slow and Steady... for the background on this one.

“See, you don’t even know if you like him!” This was Kevin talking. He was giving me shit. For freaking out so much about whether or not #185 liked me. And then, like what happened on the ice-skating date, me doing a 180 and not feeling a whole lot of like for #185.

It was exhausting, really. All the second-guessing I was doing. I don’t recommend it.

The next few dates, however, demonstrated a definite emotional uptick for both me and #185. There were a couple of hiccups, of course, but there was a definite upward trend.

Date #9: Our first movie date, to see Argo. He’d already gotten the tickets by the time I showed up and was browsing clothes in a thrift store across the street. When I walked into the thrift store, he lit up, clearly excited to see me. And I was excited to see him.

Date #10: My first trip to his place in Jersey. He was late, so we missed the train he’d wanted to get. We stood in front of the Departures board not touching each other. I wanted to hug him, hold him, something, but something else told me not to. Maybe he was nervous. Maybe I was nervous. Finally, on the train, he put his hand on my leg and I leaned my head on his shoulder. We got burgers at a local spot in town and then picked up ice cream on our way back to his place, which was a five-minute walk from his parents’ place. There was a weird distance at times, but I figured that was normal for two people getting to know each other. We messed around that night and then the next day I took a train back into the city. “I would have driven you back but my car needs to go to the shop,” he said.

Date #11: #185 texted during the workday: “Do you still want to do take-in and movie at your place or something more special?” I opted for something more special. He came over and we walked across town to Fig and Olive, an expansive but still urban-feeling restaurant in the Meatpacking District. Somehow, on the walk over, we started talking about writing.

“Yeah,” I said. “You know how sometimes I say I’m going to The Bean to do some writing?”

“I meant to ask you about that,” he said.

“Well, I’m working on a book. D’you wanna know what it’s called?”

I held my breath as he said he did.

“Me and Mister Unavailable”

I held my breath again.

“Oh, well, that’s kind of my problem, too.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. He could have been admitting he was the unavailable one. But he wasn’t.

“I end up with unavailable women.”

I was surprised. Pleasantly. There was silence again and I wondered if he was thinking what I was thinking: Which one of us is going to be the unavailable one in the end?

I hoped that mutual availability would prevail, but, if this was to be over, that, for once, the unavailable one would be me.

Dinner was actually quite lovely. I noticed a shift happening. Some sort of deepening, or opening up. Melancholia had seeped in by the time we parted ways at the subway station.

Date #12: We’d made plans for Friday but because of a blizzard, and because he was a responsible adult, he opted to go straight home rather than risk the possibility of getting “stuck” in the city if he’d stayed for our date. My sense of codependence got ruffled, but deep down, I knew it was for the best. We met up on Sunday instead, when I treated him to Guy-I’m-Dating Appreciation Day. He’d been shelling out for all of our previous dates, so I figured it was time for me to ante up. We met up at the International Center for Photography and cuddled in front of the Weegees.

Afterward, we went to see The Master and were so early that we killed time by holding each other close in the foyer of the theater lobby. Pheromones were released, heartbeats were felt. I asked if he had plans for the summer.

“Not really. I’m not much of a planner. I mean, I used to go down to a rented house on the Jersey Shore, but my ex-girlfriend always organized it, so it was all of her friends. I don’t really have any friends.”

“You only need a few good ones,” I said. “And you have your brothers.” He’d previously told me that he and his brothers had an ESP-like closeness.

“I suppose,” he said. We did Thai food afterward, choosing a New York magazine recommended-place called Zabb Elee, which must mean, “The food is so spicy, you can’t even eat it.”

He was sweet about the minor fiasco. “Want to go somewhere else?” he asked. “No, it’s fine,” I said. Back at my place, we made out for a while. He didn’t want to go home. “What time is your train?” I asked.

I draped myself over him as he checked his phone. He sighed. “It looks like I have to be going right about now.”

“I feel like the train is my competition. You’re always running off to get it.”

“I know,” he said sadly. We kissed until the very last second he had to be out the door.

Because he’d left in such a hurry, he’d left his phone behind. I emailed him to let him know. He wrote back: “Yeah, I realized it just as the F was pulling away from the station. What do you say to a dinner date tomorrow? If you have plans I can zip up to your office during lunch or just meet right after work. I'm easy. Thanks again for tonight!”

Date #13: It was raining, again, when we met up at a pizza place on 12^th street in the Village. There was electricity in the air. The waiter sat us at a gigantic table. “You feel so far away from me,” he said. It felt like we were this close to sitting on the same side of the table, but restraint triumphed. There were children one table over. He had to catch an early train and, again, the impending separation felt painful. We put it off as long as we could, holding each other in front of the restaurant under some scaffolding and then again for a few minutes under his umbrella in Union Square after I offered to walk him there. Leaving him, I felt sad. A sadness so full it bordered on joy.

Signs of Hope: There were many feelings happening.

Red Flags: He doesn’t really have any friends? And he lives so close to his parents.

Turning Point: A definite upward trend occurred somewhere in the vicinity of dates 12 and 13.

Diagnosis: Now the question is: Will one of us prove to be unavailable, will this end for a real reason or will this last?

Mr. Unavailable #185: Slow and Steady Wins the Race, and Other Benefits

See The Voice, Cracking the Code, Quasi-Quadrille, Imperfections and Cheap Empanadas for the background on this one.

Over the next few dates, I’d like to say I didn’t go crazy again. Sadly, that was not the case. Some days I was fine, some days I was not. Before date #5, I texted Kevin.

Me: I’m depressed, I can feel it slipping away between my fingers.

I was referring to my sanity.

Kevin: Hey, Crazy. You okay. Okayish?

Me: You were unavailable, so I took Eva’s advice. I don’t feel good. I may need serious triage tomorrow in the form of a phone consultation. I also may be smoking a pack of cigarettes on top of my bronchitis. Is that a bad idea?

Eva’s advice had been thusly: #185 was probably waiting for me to show I liked him and reciprocate, she said, so I needed to let him know that I would reciprocate. She suggested an email. This is the same Eva who borderline-stalks all of her crushes. If she weren’t so cute, she’d be on the receiving end of multiple restraining orders. I followed her advice and the email went like this:

Hi, You.
 I had a great time, too. I was really happy that you came over. Maybe you can tell already, but I'm just terrible at. this. stuff. All that is to say that, at the risk of sounding corny, I really like you. And, although I haven't taken it's temperature, I'm pretty sure your voice can melt butter. Don't know if I mentioned it, but I possess the same melting point as butter. So, now, when do I get to see you again?

His reaction:

Aw, shoot, you've got me acting all shy and blushed first thing in the morning. To be honest, I can't really can't tell you are terrible at this stuff. In fact, I don't think you are. Also, I am happy to melt you as long as you reconstitute so we can do it again.
 What do you say we do Friday night? 

While it went well, I was left feeling like it wasn’t necessary for me to do that. Maybe I was pushing things. I wanted to take it slow, so why put feelings on the line? Or maybe I just felt exposed. Vulnerable. Yucky.

Fortunately, the next few dates cruised along in slow gear.

Date #5: We met in Soho and went to an Italian place for dinner, eating at the bar—my new favorite thing because we got to sit close—then we went to the Little Cupcake Shop for cake and then, instead of running off to catch his train, he walked me home.

Date #6: We met up at the New Museum and hugged, deeply, any spare moment we could. We grabbed burgers at Bareburger, warming up from being out in the cold, and he came over for ice cream and a make-out session.

Date #7: We met for Thai food in the West Village after work. I even brought him a fancy coffee from Blue Bottle to be a little more give than take. We hit Café Anjelique for dessert and he caught an early train home.

After date #7, I went nuts. I did the math. Early train home+a certain tone of distance in his last few emails+he mentioned he had Friday dinner plans on Wednesday but then said nothing again about them=He had a Friday night date with another woman.

I spent that Friday evening having a meltdown at a gallery opening with Eva. Fortunately, the art was terrible and the gallery was filled with a bunch of burnouts stuck in 1995, so, when a fight broke out, I started to feel better. Someone threw a beer bottle that shattered the front door of the gallery and my own aggression found a blessed outlet.

By the time Sunday rolled around, I was feeling more composed. I suggested ice skating. “Yeah, let’s do that,” he said he said over the phone. He asked if I wanted to meet him at Penn Station. I agreed, annoyed. I called Kevin on my way to meet him.

“He wants me to meet him at Penn Station because he can’t be bothered to come down and pick me up,” I said.

“Um, I think he wants you to meet him so he can see you sooner,” Kevin said. “He wants to see you sooner.” I hadn’t thought of that.

We met up in the Chase Bank vestibule at Penn Station and headed to Waldman Rink in Central Park, lining up at the admissions booth. It turned out #185 had never ice skated before. Fortunately, he was more than game. As he splashed out about $70 for admission and skate rental for both of us, I draped myself lovingly around him. 

We put our skates on and slid slowly onto the rink. He not only had the coordination of a five-year-old but the gusto, too. He barreled around the rink in a prolonged controlled fall, smiling and laughing the whole time. And when he did fall, he got right back up again. He even made friends with the kids in the rink.

“Are you OK?” one seven-year-old girl asked him. “How many times did you fall?” Clearly, she knew how to spot someone on her level.

“Four,” he said.

“Oh, I’ve fallen like 20 times,” she said, unimpressed.

“See,” he said to me, “me and kids are like this.” He pointed two fingers at his own eyes and then turned them toward mine. In other words, he was saying, he knew they were on the same level, too.

Though I was impressed with how intrepid he was, that wasn’t translating into a desire to tear his clothes off. He was more dorky than adorable as he wobbled around at around 6’5” in his skates, his face in full Wallace-and-Gromit ecstasy.

Maybe it was just a phase and my mild repulsion would fade. I took a few steady solo laps around the rink and we de-skated shortly thereafter. We headed back down to the East Village for dinner at Frank’s and, sitting across from him, warming up, having food in front of us, watching him lean his fist on his leg in that way that inexplicably turned me on, attraction returned. We talked about how neither one of us was up on our Oscar movie watching, specifically Argo and The Master.

“Want to go on Wednesday?” he asked. I smiled. I don’t know why it always stuns me when a guy I’m dating suggests another date.

“That sounds great,” I said.

Signs of Hope: The dates keep coming.

Red Flags: 1. Occasionally, my interest flags. At least I knew enough to know it’s usually a passing thing. 2. This isn’t the first time he’s indicated he and kids are on the same level.

Turning Point: Dinner at Frank’s.

Diagnosis: Slow and steady not only wins the race but also falls down less.

Mr. Unavailable #185: Cheap Empanadas

See The Voice, Cracking the Code, Quasi-Quadrille and Imperfections for the background on this one.

Two or three dates into any dating situation, me going insane is pretty much par for the course. Somehow, over the Saturday and Sunday between dates with #185, my brain persuaded me that he was losing interest, or freaking out and backing away, or deciding that he didn’t want to splurge for yet another date.

This was, of course, more a reflection of my own self-worth and freaked-out-ness. But I didn’t know that yet and nothing could have convinced me he was thinking otherwise. Even the email he sent me on Monday—parsed and diagrammed and subjectively translated below—was unable to quell me.

Hey, [Not a more affectionate “Hey You.” This meant he was keeping his distance.]
How is the pajama life? Are you in the middle of nap #1 right now? [Usually much more clever than that, he was feeling lackluster about me.] 

So I was thinking of going to this empanadas bar in the east village...a place i went several years ago and loved. It's really small and if it's packed people are sitting on top of you...so if we are not feeling it I'm sure we can find something that suits us a bit better. [A cheap empanadas bar? Where people will be on top of us? Where he probably went “several years ago” "with a girlfriend." He was going to make swift work of the end in a safe, crowded setting without making a big monetary investment.]

What do you think? [Such hesitance showed he was tippy-toeing around me—you know, because hell hath no fury…]

I arrived at the empanadas place at the appointed time and not only was he not there, but the place was closed for renovations. I waited out front. I was trying to appear collected but seemed to be having trouble normalizing my breathing. Then I saw him approaching.

“It’s closed,” I croaked at him breathlessly as the gap between us closed.

“Yeah, this wasn’t the place I was thinking of, so I was just walking up and down the street to see if I could find it. No luck,” he said. We embraced and pecked each other as if we were new to the concepts of hugging and kissing.

“Where should we go?” he said. I noticed he had no plan B. And he didn’t try to hold my hand or even link arms.

“We could just go to Café Mogador,” I said. Café Mogador, the location of many-a-failed-relationship dates. When we got there, he chose a table in the middle of the room, right out in the open, a very public spot if there were to be, for example, a scene. He asked me to hang his coat up for him behind my seat where I’d just hung mine. Wow, he really has stopped putting in any effort, I thought.

I ordered one of the more expensive entrees from the specials menu.

“So, how was your weekend?” I asked, keeping my hands in my lap. He leaned his fist on his leg and spoke, his voice casting its spell in person for the first time. And the last time, I thought. I guess he’s going to wait until after we eat. Now that he was about to become unavailable to me, he seemed more attractive, more manly. 

We ate and talked and I began to wonder if I might be wrong. I reached my hand out to my water glass and he touched it. And then he held it.

Ohhhhhhh, I am crazy.

Finally, I began to relax.

After we ate, he said, “I thought we might go get a coffee. There’s The Bean across the street.”

“Oh, I was going to ask if you wanted to come over for coffee or tea at my place.”

“Let’s go,” he said, and then, in what seemed like one movement, he paid the bill, got out of his seat and took both of our coats off of the wall.

The next day, I texted Kevin, who’d been kept apprised of my pre-date freak-out.

Me: I got my mojo back. Phew. That was scary for a second.

Kevin: Oh no!!!

Me: Wait. Why oh no?

Kevin: How much mojo are we talking?

Me: Medium?

Kevin: Ohhhh! Okay.

Me: Thank god he’s goofy looking.

Signs of Hope: Let me explain that last text: It’s good that I find him goofy looking because that tempers my crazy.

Red Flags: There’s always a chance my intuition may not be entirely out of whack.

Turning Point: When I asked if he wanted to come back to my place for coffee.

Diagnosis: Despite what my head tells me, everything is turning out just fine.

Mr. Unavailable #185: Imperfections

See The Voice, Cracking the Code and Quasi-Quadrille for the background on this one.

#185 emailed me on Monday:

As I lie here in bed staring down my first work week in two weeks I realized that I could really use something to look forward to. So, with that in mind I was wondering if you want to get together later in the week, maybe grab dinner after work on Friday? If not Friday, any other night would work just well.
 *insert cute owl and cat Friday night pizza sketch here*
 I hope you had a nice end to the weekend and that your start to the week is great.

Four days later, it was raining when I met up with him at Mexicana Mama Centro. I'd been sick that day but my fever had broken and I managed to dress festively in a red crocheted skirt and a striped strapless ruffle top. As I approached him in front of the restaurant, he broke into a smile. Wallace-and-Gromit-ey though it was, it was hard not to like. He held open the door for me and let me have the bench side of the table.

I was more excited to see him than I thought I’d be. He seemed so much more virile than I had remembered. We ordered, talked, held hands nervously across the table. Toward the end of dinner, I was perspiring. Whether it was due to the cramped restaurant, nerves or being sick with the flu-like thing going around, I could feel the sweat running down the back of my neck.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. So thoughtful. So take charge. We went to Think for coffee a few blocks away, impulsively holding each other in line, getting lost in whatever we were feeling. The cashier snapped us out of it. “What are you having?” #185 stumbled toward the register. So imperfect of him. So relieving for me. We sat at a table in the back talking until the shop was about to close.

Seeing him under somewhat harsher lighting—big, red, shiny face and all—I regained my composure. He began to tell me a story about a woman he barely knew who had fallen in love with him. He went into more detail. She was crazy, a little bit of a stalker and legally blind.

Ohhhh, that’s why she fell for him, I thought. I couldn’t help myself from thinking it. It was the "legally blind" part of what he said. She couldn’t see him. She fell for his voice. It happened to me every time I talked to him on the phone. A spell was cast by phone that disappeared in person.

He ended the story with a moral of forgiveness and compassion. It was a she’s-just-a-human-suffering-too wrap-up that helped excuse however egotistical the story had originally sounded. I shared a story of a friend who’d done me wrong in return and we both got to feel like we were on the karmic high ground. Just about then, chairs started going up on the tables and he realized he needed to catch his train. Out on the street, we huddled, kissing under his umbrella.

“When’s next?” he said eagerly.

“I dunno,” I said, knowing only that suggesting the next day would be too much. “Sunday, Monday, Tuesday?”

He considered Sunday and then said, “Monday?”

“Monday it is.”

We groped at each other for a few more moments and then parted ways.

My new habit of not even offering to pay—and my propensity for overthinking everything—had me on edge. I sent him a text an hour later to make sure I’d covered my bases.

Me: I don’t think I thanked you for the lovely hot chocolate. So, thank you. For that and the lovely conversation.

#185: You are welcome. It was my pleasure to be sure. Thank you for breaking fevers, letting me drag you out on another gross night, that lovely face, the thematic continuity of your outfit. Everything. My conversation is only a reflection of who I am with.

It was practically poetry.

Me: You are so sweet.

One would think that with things ending on such a high note, I would have spent the next three days in a state of euphoria. Not so. Instead, I went insane.

Signs of Hope: I was attracted to him…

Red Flags: …but then sometimes I wasn’t.

Turning Point: When he excitedly said, “When’s next?”

Diagnosis: We were both pretty excited.

Mr. Unavailable #185: Quasi-Quadrille

See The Voice and Cracking the Code for the background on this one.

I sat on a bench inside the vestibule at the J.P. Morgan Library playing Words With Friends and feeling apprehensive. I was about to see #185 for the first time in almost three weeks and was worried I wouldn’t find him attractive. Although I’d felt several degrees of chemistry on our first date, I’d also decided that, regarding looks, he had goofy ones.

While he was gone, he kept up the courtship. He texted a week into his trip: “Buying a ridiculously expensive coffee in the Phoenix airport and thinking of you.”

Once more, he’d arranged a two-part date. “I’m not typically Museum Date Guy," he emailed, "but when I saw some of the drawings they have at the Morgan Library, it looks like it would be amazing." The museum was to be followed by dinner at a Turkish restaurant in the West Village. I looked up the restaurant—Casa Le Femme—on Yelp. It was a pricey middle-eastern place with mediocre food that sported belly dancers and the chance to eat under tents. Once more, I suspected he’d Googled “romantic West Village restaurant.” The tent thing worried me. Either he had a silly sense of adventure—a good thing—or, like something out of a terrible dating guide, he seriously thought a tent was a brilliant method of seduction.  

Since he’d made an effort to plan the date, I made an effort to dress for it. I went with a 1940s look: blue suede and ribbon heels, a blue fitted skirt, a black belt and a tight black square-necked top. I’d also hot-rollered my hair into a style reminiscent of Rita Hayworth.

Temporarily stumped by my Words With Friends game, I glanced up and saw him approaching the entrance to the museum. He was perhaps goofier-looking than I’d let myself remember, but there was something easy about his presence, so, as I hugged him, I thought, “I can do this.” The “I can do this” meant: I can spend the next hour or two with this guy and then, if need be, re-evaluate. He got the tickets, checked his coat and then turned and saw me with my coat in my hand. “Oh, er,” he muttered, “sorry I’m not thinking.” He was red, but I couldn’t tell if that was from embarrassment or his natural color. Either way, he was nervous.

We picked up a map and stood facing each other in the middle of the museum’s atrium trying to determine where to go first. He’d gone for an urban lumberjack look: black jeans and a brown suede vest over a gingham shirt with sleeves rolled to reveal the pushed-up arms of a cream-colored long underwear shirt. The vest drew attention to his narrow shoulders, but the rolled sleeves/long underwear look exposed a bit of forearm. I liked me a bit of forearm. I also liked me a bit of tall. And he was tall. Not quite six feet by my estimate. Tall made up for a lot with me, including goofy-looking and narrow-shouldered.

We toured the museum as if in a dance—a quasi-quadrille that ensured physical closeness remained limited. We’d enter a room and then one of us would let the other move ahead. A few moments later, whoever was behind would catch up and we’d stand together for another few moments in front of a painting or display case making sardonic wisecracks until one of us—usually me—couldn’t take any more proximity. I’d move ahead to the next piece of art and then he’d catch up. Eventually, we’d move into the next room and do it all over again.

As we entered the Beatrix Potter exhibit (perhaps we were really there for that?), I stopped in front of a wall displaying the description for the room. #185 stood a few steps away and said, “You go ahead and read that and I’ll just stand here and look at you.” There was no focusing on words after that. I smiled at him and began our next little dance around the room.

We made quick work of the rest of the museum, hailed a cab to the restaurant and were an hour early for our 7:30 reservation. Wisely, #185 hadn’t reserved a tent. That might have freaked me out. But I’d slowly become accustomed to our closer proximity and the waiter told us if we got the prix fixe dinner, we got a tent.

“I don’t mind springing for the prix fixe,” #185 said.

“Let’s do it,” I said, smiling and bouncing up and down in my seat to punctuate my vote.

We moved to the outskirts of the main room to a round table behind a sheer pink curtain.

I learned a great deal about #185 over the next few hours. He was good at telling stories, enjoyed making silly jokes and knew how to be a gentleman. About halfway through dinner, he leaned in and kissed me. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he said. I’d been unsure about how much I wanted to kiss him, so I was glad when he just went for it. I liked it.

On our way out of the restaurant, he fumbled the coat check again. This time, he tried to give the coat check lady a tip and she ignored him. He was embarrassed. Especially, I'm sure, because he knew I saw.

“Was I not supposed to tip her?” he asked.

“Some places you do, some you don’t. One never can tell.” I tried to strike a supportive tone.

On our way to Casa La Femme earlier, we’d spotted a bakery. Now, we retraced our steps to track down some dessert. Using his GPS and our combined (poor) senses of direction, we walked up and down Charles Street but were unable to find it. Because we’d locked lips, I was jonesing for some hand-holding. It wasn’t forthcoming. Feeling a little lost now for two reasons, I took both matters into my own hands, put my arm through his and said, “Let’s just go Rocco’s.”

At Rocco’s, between bites of shared cheesecake and bits of conversation, we gazed into each other’s eyes and smiled, saying nothing. Breathing ceased. Thoughts disappeared. I knew he felt the same. “I got nothing,” he said.

Signs of Hope: He texted after the date: “Thanks again for tonight. I really enjoy spending time with you and I could not figure out how to say that in a less corny way.”

Red Flags: Just hold my hand, god damn it.

Turning Point: When he kissed me.

Diagnosis: For him: Maybe "corny" equals "available." 

For me: Corny is working.