This one, unlike most of the other former dates, was someone I had met the old-fashioned and organic way - at another neighborhood cafe. So it was kind of appropriate that I ran into him this way. He is a writer, after all, and so spends much of his time cruising the free wi-fi establishments.
This former date - let's call him Schmitty - must have taken a page from Kelly Clarkson's ex when he met me, because he was totally dedicated, and took the time; so much so that I even fell for the stupid love songs (in the form of frequent and sweet-as-honey texts) Schmitty sent for the first four or five weeks we dated.
It was a heroic effort on his part to woo me; dinners out, phone calls, sharing of emotions...blah, blah, blah. All the shit a normal girl looks for when contemplating giving it up. So I did - give it up, I mean - and for all of a week or so after that, Schmitty poured on the sugar, using it to drug me into a false sense of security.
Now, I'm a pretty perceptive girl; I'm no Ivy-leaguer, but at this point in my life, it's pretty hard to pull the wool over my eyes where men are concerned. Because unlike some women, when a man shows me the first time who he is, I tend to believe him. And when I say showing me who he is, I'm not talking about the lusty stuff that comes at the beginning. Even the most emotionally challenged and developmentally arrested person can spend three weeks imitating molasses on a stick. No, I mean that first hiccup, when he does something irritating or hurtful, or both, in this case.
It started with a drastic reduction in whisper-texted sweet nothings, followed by an utter dearth of phone calls. I got one more dinner out of him, at which his internal filter failed him completely. Because he told me, "When I'm with you, I'm really happy, and I have a really good time, and I love talking to you. But when I'm not with you, I wonder, what am I thinking?"
Shortly after that little revelation about his inner dialogue, it occurred to me that Schmitty must be showering someone else with, well, everything in his arsenal. So when he called one last time, I asked him if he was fucking someone else. He sputtered and tripped over himself, told me that yes, he had kind of slept with someone else. Which is sort of like saying you're a little knocked up. You've either been poked, or in this case, have been doing the poking, or you haven't.
Unless he couldn't find the hole, I guess.
That was our last phone call until about six months later, when he called randomly and caught me in a particularly confrontational mood. Even more than usual, I mean.
He said he was calling to...
and I said, "Apologize for being an asshole?"
And he said yes. So I cut him some slack and told him I appreciated the phone call.
And that was that until this morning.
So he, his friend, and I were all chatting, joking about dating, Match, meeting girls, etc., and right there, while on his man-date, Schmitty said, "I was an asshole; I acted like an idiot."
In other words, he manned up.
No longer will he occupy that overstuffed, bursting-at-the-seams corner of my brain filled with emotionally retarded boys.
He's moved to the grown-ups' table. Welcome, Schmitty...have a drink on me.