Despertar

jinx

Oops. Forgot to knock on wood.

For which reason I'm now sitting on the hard marble floor at Union Station, amid a bunch of establishments all in the process of shutting down, stealing internet from an au bon pain across the way. Waiting to get picked up. Or not to. Waiting for any blessed signal of any sort. Again.

*

A man in his fifties, who identified himself as a prodigal son and a housepainter, sat right next to me in the vastly empty waiting area and tried to talk me into helping him break up with his girlfriend when her train came in.

He said, "She's Chinese and I'm black." He said that. "We're part of two different cultures and she don't really understand anything about me. You know, I can't really talk to her about my racial issues, or my religion, or about anything she don't know the words for, because of how her English isn't really that good, you know?"

With complete awareness of where all this was headed, I said, "Oh, that sucks. Well, maybe next time you should, like, avoid dating someone you can't even really talk to. Since talking and communicating are the bases of all good relationships." And smiled.

He stared at me in complete thrall for about twenty seconds, and then said, "Holy Jesus. I could tell just from looking at you that you were smart, too. I really am looking for a young lady like yourself to help lift me out of this rut of finding women that aren't good enough for me."

I said, "Could you excuse me for a second? I have to call my ride."

I'm so, so, so, so sick of getting hit on by men old enough to be my dad. If anything drives me crazy, that does.

Over dinner one night in the Bahamas, it came out that I went on a single, uneventful date with a thirty-eight-year-old during that period when I wasn't dating Justin. Both of my parents had already heard about the date (and how awful it was, how he was forty-five minutes late to a restaurant he chose without consulting me, which, had he done, he would have learned that I particularly hate, then spent the whole time talking about himself and how wonderful it is to be a homeowner, something I can't relate to and probably won't be able to for at least six years), but my brother had not, and was horrified about the whole thing. Not in a protective brother sense, but in a how could you be so dumb sense. In an I can't believe you don't know not to get preyed on by middle-aged vultures sense.

Whatever, my brother dates five, six girls at a time and treats all of them like Tamagotchis. Offers up just enough pellets to keep the relationships in the yellow, wears them all but around his neck like medals.

I have to wonder, sometimes, whether maybe a guy in the autumn of his life wouldn't do that to me. Wouldn't treat me like a Tamagotchi. And would actually show up at Union Station when he said he was going to so my ass didn't go numb on the hard floor.

*

Here's what happened:

1. This morning, I called and asked Justin for his cooperation in helping me make the eight-thirty Chinatown bus tomorrow morning. I suggested, but didn't insist, that I just sleep at his place, to spare him the inconvenience of having to drive to mine in the morning.

2. He agreed. (He did mention, vaguely, that he might want to go out drinking with some friends who just got back to town for school. He expanded that he therefore couldn't commit his entire night to me, but that if I wanted I could tag along, and that I was welcome to sleep at his place afterward regardless. All of this was fine with me. I much prefer being last on the agenda. Less rushing involved.)

3. We determined that I would take the Metro downtown and arrive at Union Station no later than ten o'clock. We agreed that if either of us encountered a damning circumstance, we would rearrange our plan.

4. No such damning circumstance occurred. Neither of us called the other for hours.

5. At eight forty-five, I boarded the train. Along the way, I texted Justin to indicate that i'd probably hit Union Station sometime after nine. He did not text back.

6. At nine-fifteen, I debarked the train at Union Station and called Justin. He did not answer.

7. The thing with the housepainter happened circa nine-thirty. It made me nervous, so I texted Justin again in search of marching orders. I offered to transport myself and my two heavy bags to the convenient rendezvous point of his choice, to facilitate the evening.

8. He FINALLY texted back, and over the course of a five-minute exchange of texts, tried and failed to talk me into going home to "wait." Which sounds kind of more like an awkward attempt to weasel out of hanging out tonight at all. Which, I guess I should feel bad, I didn't really leave him that option, because instead of totally molding my evening to his plans, I tried to do exactly the opposite. I announced that I would see him whenever he was done doing whatever he's doing. My error. My bossiness.

9. He's still not here. It's ten forty-nine. He knows I'm waiting.

*

Whatever, I don't want to talk about it.