The summer is coming to an end, the sunsets arriving sooner, and the darkness enveloping me when I awake. I had wanted it to last longer. I always want to capture something as it flees.
The one guy who pegged me as his girlfriend, four dates into the game, seems to have cooled off, not because of his lack of interest, but mine.
In the beginning, when I did not see his warts, I dated him with the enthusiasm of a child at a candy store. I jotted down notes about our dates, chronicling each encounter. Now, not only is he feeling like yesterday's leftover meal, but I look at him and see in him many things I hate about myself.
He is another member of the "perennially tardy" club, or maybe it is because he has the directional sense of a blind ferret (like the one in "Along Came Polly").
The first three times he called, asking for the street address yet again, walking north when it was supposed to be south, going to the west side, rather than the east. I chalked it to the fact that he's not from my neck of the woods.
I answered him first patiently and then slowly biting my tongue harder and harder. The other day I could no longer contain the angst.
He was completely inaccurate about whether a movie was playing, what time it would start—and then he got off the wrong train stop and left me waiting at the theater for a good 20 minutes. I thought I was late. I kept texting him with my "ETA, estimated time of arrival."
I was steaming, thinking now of a friend—that type-A Ph.D. man—who, to this day, reminds me that I never showed up to swimming on time. He was annoyed; now I was getting a taste of my own medicine. "I think we suffer from the same problem," I said, bluntly, when he finally appeared.
There are signs that he might be worse off than me. He only recently opened a bank account; he's poor with money, he takes on too many activities, he lives in a rented basement in one of the boroughs, and his mother is harping on him to organize life, money, work, food, etc.
When we go out, I am not proud of him. I find myself snapping at what I regard as laziness, when maybe, who knows, he could be tres type-B—or maybe he has ADD. I had to catch my tongue at times when I felt like lashing out at him. "Are you stupid or something?" I want to ask.
When I told the story of his mishaps to my sister, she said I was unforgiving and mean. But that is how I am treating myself half the time. The inner voice is harsh.
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