Let’s review. He’s:
Tall, handsome, well-mannered and well-traveled, intelligent, established, educated and employed, accented and artistic
We met for coffee and found a bench at Rittenhouse, close enough to hear the Rastafarian music, but not close enough to smell it. We talked about dogs and the powerfulness of the Constitution (which he could passionately quote). About the Mediterranean (where he studied) and literary classics. He goes to church every Sunday and volunteers helping the homeless. He paints on the weekend and isn’t shy to sing a verse of a song I’ve never heard. He even forgave me for my Copenhagen Lie.
He suggested I go to church with him sometime, that he teach me to paint, to speak a little Norwegian. Upon hearing that my parents are still relatively young, he said that I would have to start soon to keep up. Yes, he suggested that I start a family soon. And talked about the importance of commitment in a relationship.
And yet I am so dissatisfied, because I am not disappointed. I dread that he might call again, and ask for more, for dinner at least.
This dating deal is like groping the bathroom cabinet above the sink looking for Dimetapp.
You drink it down because it’s supposedly good for you, because it’ll cure your malaise and make you feel better. But before you even bring the little plastic cup to your lips, you know it’ll throw your stomach into knots. It’ll make your body cower and stomach churn. It’ll feel…medicinal. But you do it, because they tell you that it’s good for you.
You do it because you’re hoping that you’re feeling a just a little cold.