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.
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