second date

Sunday
I meet a co-worker, G, for a drink near my house. It is, I think, a date. We behave as though it is a date. Wearing contacts, instead of his usual glasses, and a dark corduroy blazer, G is surprisingly handsome. We wash down chicken wings and a chili burger with icy, cold beer. Slightly taller than me, blond, balding, G talks frenetically, passionately, nervously. He is leaving our company, and I ask him for advice. We have chatted extensively online, but only have spent time with each other live once or twice.

We discuss our love of languages, of travel, of trying new places, and I ask him, fearlessly, “Would you ever learn Mandarin?” He says that he would, for a compelling professional or personal reason. That’s the right answer. I never would have asked Clerk to learn Mandarin.

We talk about our families and our siblings. G believes that he and his sister are both still single because they have such high expectations for relationships, having grown up with his parents as an extraordinary role model.

“Hm,” I think. “I guess my siblings are probably both still single because they have been in places where they are unlikely to meet anyone.”

“And you,” he teases, “what about you?”

“Me? Well, I guess…” Suddenly, I am quiet. “I guess I’ve made a few wrong turns.”

He pauses, and then asks gently, “Really?”

I look up, frowning. “Yeah. Well,…yeah.”

Soon it is time for his soccer game, and it is time for me to meet Nice Guy. I offer to pay, but he refuses. “No, no, I invited you,” he says.

Is this a date?

Outside, I thank him, “That was fun. Glad we did it. Have a good game!”

“Thanks,” he says, cheerfully.

We walk in opposite directions.

Was that a date?

I treat myself to a cab, to meet Nice Guy for what I know is a date.

I wait for him, alone, in a tiny basement jazz club with dark red walls. Nice Guy arrives and immediately presents me a CD. “I made this for you. It’s some music I’ve recorded over the last few years.”

I thank him, and look at the CD, on which he has spelled my name incorrectly.

“Two ‘Ls,” I say, slightly annoyed with him, and then with myself.

He made me a CD.

This breaks my heart.

After the Brazilian band plays a few songs, I let myself lean against him, and he wraps his arm around my shoulder. I like the feeling of the rough stubble on his face against my cheek.

When the first set ends, we walk to my apartment so that he can try the pumpkin pie I had baked that afternoon. I hand him a mini pie, and he takes a bite. “You don’t have to eat it all, if you don’t want to,” I say. “Really.” He devours it.

After hugging good-bye, we stand, facing each other.

“When are you coming back?” he asks.

“In two weeks,” I sigh.

“I’m going to miss you,” he says.

This breaks my heart.

I look away.

I kiss him good-bye, and he leaves.

He likes me. He thinks I’m beautiful, and says so. He made me a CD. He puts his arm in mine, when we walk. He says, sincerely, “I’ll miss you.”


Over the course of three short days, Nice Guy has said and done things that Clerk never, ever did, over the course of eight long months.

This, too, breaks my heart.