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.