frailty, thy name is ding

His message to me was typical – sober and dark like a Puritan’s suit but barely covering something less seemly underneath:

“When will I see you again? I’d like to make up for last time. Sorry for the terse message.”

I groaned. This was the latest such email in a series I’d received from him since our disastrous reunion last summer. Feeling cornered I suggested dinner, prepping him with dire warnings of my being “shaky, stressed out and easily shattered.” (Perhaps, in the words of my roommate A—, I can’t fault a guy for having mechanical difficulties. That didn't mean I was getting naked, though.)

Let’s skip back a few years, when naked was our friend. Our intense 4-month long carnal carnival was coming to some kind of conclusion; we could both feel it. We’d soon have to stop rolling around in sweat for a few minutes to actually talk about what this was. But thanks to being two people who have the communications skills of overeducated Helen Kellers, our conversations completely misfired:

Him: So…what do you think about having a drink with me or meeting my friends soon? [Do you like me?]
Me: Uh…ok. I actually didn’t think you had friends. [You scare me.]
Him: You don’t know me. [So you don’t like me.]
Me: I know. That’s my point. It’s not like we’re actually dating here. We meet, we have sex, we chat for a while, I take the train home. Is that a date? [Deflect! Deflect!]
Him: But would you? [But do you?]
Me: What? [Yes. No. I have no idea. You scare me.]
Him: Be interested in me. Beyond this. [Because I like you.]
Me: Uh…sure. [Jesus. Shit. Crap.]

It’s no wonder the implosion of our pseudo-relationship gave birth to the words “cold, calculating bitch” and “intense loner freak.”

Saturday night: Dinner and conversation was lovely; in the middle of espresso he invited me over to watch Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle. Hm, I thought. Odd choice. So I said yes. What could be so wrong with one movie? And it’s good to go to his place, I said to myself. The cold bareness of his apartment will reinforce why it never worked out between you in the first place. You have furniture and he doesn’t. He lives like a weird monk and you don’t. You will keep on your clothes no matter what happens.

Sitting primly on what passed for his couch, we managed to get through half the movie before he pushed his cat off my lap and …well, the loss of two garments is hardly an entire outfit, so I think I still kept my promise with myself.