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.