Mr. Unavailable #148: Fried-Chicken Date

See George W.’s Doppelganger and The Back-Up Planner for the background on this one.

“I don’t think you’re unavailable.” This was Kevin talking.

“Your only problem is that you think you have a problem.” This was Eva talking.

“Look at us. If any people are unavailable, we are.” I’m not sure which one said that, but it didn’t matter. Kevin was in his second year of single-dom and Eva had just buried her on-again, off-again cheating ex-con pseudo boyfriend, who’d ODed. 

“Maybe you just don’t like him,” Kevin said.

“I just need to keep going and see what happens. Maybe he’ll grow on me." It wasn’t the best outlook to have when approaching a third date, but it was the best I could do with what I had to work with.

I met #148 outside the Lexington Avenue armory. He looked cute. Again, I was hopeful. At the ticket counter, I pulled out my wallet as we got the tickets. He didn’t shoo me away like he was supposed to—like I wanted him to. “Oh, thank you. I’ll get dessert later or something,” I said, rescinding my almost-offer as if he had shooed me away. It had soured things. It was only our third date and he’d done the inviting. In my mental dating guide, it was way too soon to be going Dutch. 

We walked into the darkened armory and I knew exactly what I was in for. The only light was on a small semi-circle of chairs in the center, while the rest of the cavernous hangar, which felt like it took up an entire block, was darkened. Prime make-out space. We sat in some chairs to listen to the 20-minute sound loop. After it was done, we walked around to listen to the speakers hanging from other parts of the ceiling, which lent different sounds to different spots in the room.

Lo and behold, just as the squawking of a murder of crows reached a crescendo above, #148 came up behind me, turned me around and kissed me. I mechanically kissed him back, putting my arms around his skinny frame and then, after he’d turned away, wiping his saliva from my mouth.

Though far from turned on, I wasn’t quite ready to give up on myself—or him. Outside the armory, we decided on dinner at the Shake Shack in Madison Square Park. I’d never been there. We waited for the 6 train downtown and as the train pulled into the station, he plugged his ears with his fingers. “Sometimes the trains are too loud, so I have to cover my ears,” he said as we got on the train.

Why did he just tell me that? I thought. It only added to his wimpy George W.-ness. Look at it this way, I told myself, if you start to like him, that will probably become really adorable. I looked at him, willing myself into adoration.

The line for the Shake Shack wrapped around the block. “We can go to Hill Country Chicken instead,” he said. “They have amazing fried chicken.” As we approached the restaurant, I began to invisibly sulk. It wasn’t a real restaurant. It was a grab-a-tray and pay-at-the-register type of place. Maybe it was quality fast food, but it was still fast food. In my mental dating guide, this was not an acceptable third-date dinner option. Again, at the register—the moment of truth—I pulled out my wallet. As I began to offer cash, he began to accept. Once more, I rescinded. “I’ll get dessert,” I said.

Maybe I was being unreasonable. Maybe I was expecting too much. And then Evan’s voice echoed in my head—Evan, the quintessential gentleman. “Why don’t guys just pay? It’s such an easy way to earn brownie points when starting to date someone.” Maybe I wasn’t being unreasonable, maybe #148 just wasn’t for me. I made sure to spring for dessert and continued to try to look at him as if I were a stranger watching him from across the room. He’s nice, I thought. He’s cute.

At 10 p.m., he said he had to go home—to pack, he said. Even though for 75 percent of the date, I’d been quietly rejecting him, I now felt a sting of rejection. Leaving so soon?

“I’m taking a cab,” he said. “I could drop you at your place.” He grabbed me as we waited for a cab and kissed me, tongue flailing, pressing himself against me. The best way to describe my reaction was: flattered, but yuck.

He dropped me at home and went on his way. Gone to Europe, he spent 10 days in a state of suspended animation, giving him an artificial air of unavailability. He became more assertive, more interesting, more attractive.

At my birthday dinner a few days before he was to get back, Nora, still single, too, was talking about how, in relationships, the passion usually fades anyway, so maybe it's more important to find someone you can talk to, and laugh with. I thought of #148 sitting across from me at the fried chicken place. He fit that description.

The day #148 got back from his trip, I eagerly anticipated his next text. Or call. Or something. But the only word from him came via Words with Friends—when he canceled our game. He was gone.

Signs of Hope: He wanted to kiss me. And I didn’t exactly bat him away.

Red Flags: I was expending a lot of energy trying to be attracted to him.

Turning Point: When he dumped me over Words With Friends.

Diagnosis: For him: Could he sense my lack of interest? Was he turned off that I didn’t pay? Was he not really interested? Was he unavailable? Was there someone else?

For me: Even though my ego took a hit, honestly, the dude did me a favor.