Mr. Unavailable #98: Crossing the Bridge

See From Russia, With No Love, More of the (Exact) Same, Sanity Takes a Turn, The Calm Before the Storm, Fight Club, Rejection=Flattery, Neanderthal No More? and Startling the Natives for the background on this one.

We hadn’t even gotten to the foot of the bridge when Eva accused #98 of being intoxicated.

“He’s not drunk. He’s totally sober. I’ve known him for years,” I said

Eva looked skeptical. “But he’s got holes in his shirt.”

“Believe it or not, he’s a doctor,” I said.

She looked at me in disbelief.

“Really. Seriously,” I said.

#98 must have enjoyed being thought of as a bum because, having proven himself up for a good debate at the barbecue, he did nothing to defend himself.

“Then you need to buy some new shirts if you want to be with Tara,” Eva said to him. #98 howled.

It took us a while to find the Williamsburg bridge, which gave Eva plenty of time to realize that he wasn’t drunk, he was just an argumentative Russian who didn’t know how to dress himself. It also gave her plenty of time to hassle him about his shirt, which he thought was hysterical.

As we crossed the bridge, the sun was setting. #98 put his arm around me as we walked, kissed me on the cheek, tried to coax me into kissing him on the lips, generally treated me as if he was on the verge of taking the next step. 

“You’re a doctor, you must have a lot of money, I’m sure you can buy a shirt that doesn’t have holes,” Eva said.

“Yes, I have lots of money I don’t know what to do with it.”

“You could take me out on a date,” I said.

“Yeah, you could probably take her to a pretty nice place, too,” Eva said.

“Yeah, um, we could dress up,” I said.

“I took you out on a date and you picked up garbage from the street and carried it around,” he said.

“That wasn’t a date,” I said. I turned to Eva. “We went to see a movie and I had to find a box to mail my nephew’s birthday present and there were a bunch in front of Starbucks.”

“Do you always pick up trash on your dates?” he teased.

He was evading the real issue, which was: what exactly were his intentions? And was he ever realy going to take me on a date?

We got to the Manhattan side of the bridge, dropped Eva off at the entrance to the subway and walked up through the Lower East Side. Arms around each other, I was hoping that, considering the overtures he appeared to be making, he would offer up more clarity.

He walked me to my apartment. Leaning on a bicycle harnessed to a signpost, he pulled me to him. Up until that point, we hadn’t actually kissed on the lips. There was a cheek kiss here, an ear nuzzle there, but, kissing? Too much. Somewhere deep inside, I'd drawn a line. As soon as he said something to indicate this was more than what it was so far, I'd cross the line.

But his lips—a pretty little pouf—looked so darned inviting. I considered for a moment. Maybe I could draw a new line. Maybe as long as no saliva was exchanged, then it was OK. My new line: kissing, no tongue. 

And so we did. It lived up to its pretty pouf of a promise.

I would like to say that crossing the bridge was some kind of metaphor for what happened next. But it wasn't. After a couple of minutes, I began fishing for my keys. I smiled coyly. He smiled back. Nothing explicit was said. Nothing implicit was implied. And then I turned and went in and he turned and went home.

Signs of Hope: He's trying to claim me—in front of people.

Red Flags: His intentions are still unclear.

Turning Point: None yet. Even though he professes to wanting to be together, his actions toward me say otherwise.

Diagnosis: For him: He can’t seem to quite pull the trigger. Yet.

For me: I’ve told him what I’m looking for. And I’m sticking to it.