Talk Cry Talk

The thing that I do that I hate the most is that when a boy calls--a boy with the potential of bo-ing bo-ing--I will drop everything. I absolutely LOATHE this aspect of myself and despite many efforts to curb this natural tendency I fail.

Last night was a classic example of why doing said dropping was BAD.

I was at Chelsea Market in the Wine Vault at a tasting with my band of merry co-workers. DRINKING on the company dime--albeit $20pp--when D'Souza texts me to say he's not going to meet up with me afterwards because he's done with work and he might as well go home instead of waiting around.

I race out of the place and lo and behold he is standing right outside waiting for me. I am that predictable. RACING.

We amble around meatpacking aimlessly till he suggests Continental. Who am I to argue with the alco lube? We hop in a cab and jet across Manhattan. The small talk is neither as painful nor as lame as I recall but then again I have learned to set very, very low expectations.

I'm hyper aware of how firm his body is under his perfectly fitted shirt tucked into Euro styled trousers and how minty his breath smells and how dark his skin is against the fresh-pressed white of his shirt and brightness of his eyes. Yeah, it's been almost 3 months people...don't judge ME.

As we exit the cab, I know he needs to eat. It's this weird primal knowledge. I just know. No eat=Puking on the street. So we pop into Tahini--formely Chickpea--he eats what he calls a snack and I refer to as two meals. We stop so he can withdraw cash at the ATM when I run into Yules and Bry...busted.

You see, I have the good sense to keep my ex-habits covert. Running into friends of friends who know the ex as the ex does not help. Not that anyone cares enough about my social life to talk about it, but now the jig is up. But I write it off as entirely worth it as the prospect of ex-sex looms large.

We meander into Continental. Share 10 shots of Jack for $20 in 30 minutes. He keeps looking at his watch. I start to get annoyed. Apparently he has to catch the 9:30pm train to LI. He insists on walking me to the 6 train.

I whine. I stamp my feet. I'm generally annoyed. He relents. We go to Sin Sin.

He orderes me a Jack neat to which I request a splash of diet. He switches to Corona. I assume I'm getting liquored up for a reason. Under the dim lights in the sparsely populated red room we start making out. I mean, where else was this story going?

But then the TWIST. He pulls back and looks me straight in the face, "I need someone to talk to right now. Did you think we were just going to meet up and have sex? Am I just good for that?"

Of course, the statement wrenches my heart. You know I'm a sucker for talk. So we talk. We sit. He talks. We are friends?

After his second beer, he asks me not to get mad because he has to go. He has to catch the 10:30pm train and he has to get back. Something about boys night. Something about not being able to park his car at the station overnight because it will get towed. Something about wanting me but the timing of now being off. Something about tomorrow--today, now--or Sunday or anytime before I head to Berkeley.

But I've stopped listening. It's not happening. I only know that it's not happening. That we are sitting in a bar with low lights, drinking, and making out but we're not going home together.

This time he knows better. He doesn't wait for me to finish or try to walk me anywhere. He closes out his tab and briskly walks out of the bar without a backward glance. Much like a GI Joe programmed to march at a certain speed in a certain direction at a certain time. Mission complete.

I sit another minute. Take a swig of my drink. Leave half of it on the bar undrunk, sigh, and walk out of Sin Sin. No chance of sinning despite my best effort.

As I walk toward Third Avenue, I feel the familiar flutter of rejection and unmet expectation; equal parts loneliness and disappointment co-mingling into a cocktail of self-pity. I start to cry. It's quiet at first: slowed breathing with tears rolling down my cheeks but over time it expands like a balloon of melancholy throbbing and rattling, noisy and unpretty.

I drunk dial V. I drunk dial Z. I cry. I tell them I already regret calling them and I'm sorry about this message but I need them to tell me I'm good at more than listening. I need to believe that talking to me while great is not the single most valuable element of me that keeps them coming back.

Why does everyone want to talk to me so they can figure it out because when I listen it makes more sense? I don't say much. I don't know much. I'm a captive audience. I DO genuinely want it to be alright. I listen--I guess that's the point.

I cry harder. I walk faster. I get sadder. It's the alcohol...mostly. It's the same bad decision. Knowing better doesn't yeild better results. This is the lesson I learn and relearn yet never apply. Theories I get right away, in practice I fail everyday.

I'm crossing action-oriented off my resume, along with problem solver and good decision-making skills.