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I Think I’ll Give Him My Number

October 3, 2014

My 18 year old nephew just got his driver’s license. He had the car for the evening and was itching to get out of the trailer he still lives in with his mom, step-whatever and sister. His friends had bailed on him so he called his cool Aunt Marie, all excited and looking for something to do.

“Uh, well….like where do you want to go?” I asked. It’s not every day your nephew wants to hang out with you on a Thursday night. “I just got back from my walk and I need to eat and it’s Liz’s birthday and I’m not sure if she wants to do anything…” I stammered. “Ok, you want to watch me drink wine at Pamplona?”

“Hey that’d be great,” he said.

I got there early and tried to read some Hemmingway but was interrupted with inquiries about my recent non-trip. The bar was full and when my nephew John arrived, he stood next to me while I finished telling the manager how I had not seen any of Israel, spending time in a detention center instead.

Some seats opened up so John and I moved. He accepted the bartender’s suggestion for a cucumber soda and I nursed my wine. A couple of men came in from the back of the restaurant and took up the seats next to us, joining their friends.

“Oh, hey,” I said to one of them, “Did we take your seats?”

“Yeah, you did,” he said, not in anger or annoyance but more like a shot off the bow.

“Well, deal with it,” I responded.

“What are you one of my dates? The hostility? You don’t even know me yet.”

Ok. That was funny. I laughed. He had game. I like that.

We continued the tit for tat as he played with me and I played back. He was witty and insulting at the same time. He managed to shock yet amuse me. He started speaking Russian. “Oh, no, please not Russian,” I said. “There were a lot of Russians in the detention center. I don’t want to hear Russian for a while.”

He kept implying that John and I were having a fling, which of course was repulsive and he seemed to enjoy my indignant reaction. He claimed to be both a lawyer and radiologist and also claimed to practice both while slightly buzzed.

He was rather ridiculous but I was compelled by him. I like someone who can spar with me. And he made me laugh. He wasn’t at all my type but a few times when I looked him in the eye, I thought I detected some chemistry.

Liz showed up just in time to see the show and wondered why I was even talking to him. We don’t have the same taste in men. John was highly amused. This little show was worth his drive downtown.

The evening wore on and the bartender joined us after her shift. She was occupying Liz and John while I continued to play my stupid game.

He got up and talked to some of his friends down the bar.

I had one of my random spurts of bravery, probably fueled by loneliness and desperation. I decided I would give him my number and announced this to Liz. I wrote “Marie” and my cell number on a piece of notebook paper in pencil, tore it out and folded it in half.

“I’m going to do it.” I told myself. “What the hell. What do I have to lose?”

Three glasses of wine later, he was saying goodbye to everyone. I would hand it to him or maybe I’d follow him out and tell him I liked to see him again. Or something like that.

He came up to Liz and I and took my hand proclaiming all sorts of flowery amazements at my general existence and his fortune at having met me. It was the same weird bullshit he had been spewing all night. I can’t quite explain why I wasn’t repulsed by him. Oh, I know. He said his grandparents were Lebanese. Maybe that’s it.

“It was great meeting you,” he said. The folded paper with my number on it was right under my hand.

“You just going to leave it to chance that you see her again?” Liz asked.

“If it’s meant to be, we’ll meet again,” he said. “Truly it was a pleasure.”

I picked up the paper, started tearing it up and dropped the pieces down.

There it is. He was full of shit. I let him walk out.

It wasn’t quite as bad as the “I really like you. I can tell,” incident but it was another in a long line of “You’re amazing—I’m so interested in you—-and nothing,” happenings.

I’m beginning to have a theory about men. None of them actually want to have sex. They say they do. They claim that’s all they really want. But when I think of how many men I’ve met in the last year that I so would have gone there with if they had just played their cards right… The guy from the Blue Moon who kissed me on the porch, Black Michael, The Feather, the local musician, the Pakistani who was here for a few weeks, the tall Indian who walks in the park… I’m not that hard to get. If I’m remotely attracted to you, all you have to do is be nice to me, ask me on a date and want just a little bit more than a one-night stand. Either men like to give the impression that they’re interested when they are not or they are not actually interested in sex.

But I’m interested in sex. And I’m tired of playing this game with these stupid men.

If only I had made it to the Hagia Sofia.

Sigh.

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From → Rantings

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