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.