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.