Hanging on the Telephone

I met T via Grindr, how I meet just about everyone I’ve been on a date with. We exchanged a few innocent face pictures, messaged for an hour or so, and set up a date.

It was something Nicholas Sparks would have written—without the girl dying of cancer or the ghost of his ex-wife trying to get him laid. (And yes, that’s a fairly accurate description of one of his books.) T met me on the corner of 17/7, single lily in hand. We walked to Momoya and sat there for more than three hours, talking about life and books and anything else that would delay ending the night.

He walked me to my train, and I pulled out one of my shiny new business cards. “Let me know when you want to go out again.”

“This weekend?” he smiled. We shared a Nicholas Sparks-inspired kiss and went our separate ways.

I giggled on the ride home, unable to contain myself. The right person can do that: reduce you to a complete fool in public, and you just don’t give a damn. I half expected a text before I got home, something like, “Couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Sleep tight.”

No such text came before I reached 181st Street, nor before I fell asleep.

I went to work the next day, hosting at a restaurant. With every table I sat, I raced back to the host stand to check my phone. Nothing. By the time I clocked out at 6 p.m., still nothing.

Maybe he’s busy, I told myself, or away from his phone? I logged onto Grindr and went to his profile from our messages. The app claimed he had logged in just 30 minutes before.

So he’s playing it cool. I’ve done that before… but I’ve also straight-up ignored people until they went away.

I began scrutinizing our date, going over every detail while eating family portions worth of Chinese food in bed. (I’m telling you, a good crab Rangoon can heal any broken heart.) What had I done wrong? We talked for hours. He kissed me goodbye, a lingering, passionate kiss. HE was the one who suggested we go out again this weekend.

I calmed down, finishing my orange beef. (I never leave anything for leftovers.) It had barely been 24 hours; give the guy some breathing air.

But after a week went by, I accepted that I wouldn’t be getting a call. Maybe I had bad breath, or was a terrible kisser, or (god forbid) he Googled my name and read about The Ex Fiancé.

Maybe he died in a fire I hadn’t heard about, or witnessed a murder and was swept into the witness protection agency, or had multiple personalities and the others didn’t like me.

After a night of tequila, I sent him a message on Grindr—”Fuck off.” Then, while sobering up in the morning, I blocked him out of embarrassment. Oh, I can’t control myself—don’t leave me hanging on the telephone.