Not The Logan to My Veronica, But It'll Do...

"I'll be over a bit later," I told him over email. "I need to run home and shower and change. I'm not representing very well on the hotness scale right now, and if I am to see you, I'd rather do it in an outfit that devastates."

Last minute plans are rare in the context of our friendship, if you can call it that, this dance we've been doing since mid-January. Normally plans are hatched after weeks of silence, a week or two ahead of time. I spend the day of participating in various grooming rituals, planning what I will wear, coming up with a good backup in case Outfit A somehow backfires, my stomach in knots all the while. Before we meet up I do a shot of whisky and smoke a Parliament Light, my way of taking the edge off.

Until yesterday it was unheard of for him to request my company with such little advance notice. But after Wednesday's reunion everything was a bit off-kilter. Epic emails were exchanged Thursday afternoon. The ones of the "I can't handle a relationship" variety (him) and the "I'm not in love with you nor do I plan to be in the near future" variety (me). After 5 months of ambiguity, our relationship was finally defined: friends with a little extra. Given my ambivalence towards all things romantic these days, this seems like a nice temporary solution. I have ingested no whisky, but I did borrow a beer from one of my roommates (yes, I will get you back--thanks for having so much beer).

In a tight red tee complimenting both my slight tan and my natural assets, and my new outrageously expensive jeans (that actually manage to flatter my curves--amazing), I sauntered into his apartment. "That outfit devastates" I hear him say behind me, one of the only true compliments he has ever given me in regards to my appearance (I think "cute" was the other--a descriptor I often tire of. I'd take sexy or unique over cute any day). A small studio with barely enough room to contain his bed and his desk, I set about doing some housekeeping. Listen, when you're bed doubles as your sofa, you can't invite a woman over and have it unmade. No lady likes to lounge on an unmade bed, even if she is essentially only visiting you to makeout with you and you both know it. The lighting is crappy, no music is playing. I request some ambiance. He dims the lights, puts on some tunes. "Not the bitter mix," I say. "I can't hang out with you and listen to a mix you made expressing your sentiments towards another woman. And that Ryan Adams song makes me want to slit my wrists." He complies.

A lady does not kiss and tell (very much), so that is as much of a recap as I am willing to provide. The evening was nice. Having laid a gentle smack down on him with my I-do-not-love-you email, I noticed a definite shift in my feelings towards him. Way less emotional, way less worried about saying or doing the wrong thing. But less passion too, but maybe that's better. Passion messes with your head. Passion makes you do stupid things like send snippy emails and text messages. Passion gets you attached. Attached is not something I can be with this one. I am removed, distant, airy to the point of flippancy. I deliver off-handed compliments but follow them up with casual put-downs. Intellectual acrobatics, teasing insults as foreplay.

Looking at his eyes I see for the first time that they're the same greenish bluish shade as mine.


And in other news, this weekend promises to devastate. Happy hour tonight, followed by a possible outing to Wonderland. Brunch with the gals tomorrow, the band Califone at the Rock and Roll Hotel at night. Kickball all day on Sunday, hopefully with a chance to work out, do laundry and see a movie mixed in.

Oh, and my set up? The one I was super excited about? He disappeared into the ether. According to my married friends who set us up, he is dating his college crush. "She's not nearly as cute as you," she said. Hmph! As happy as I am for him that he's found himself a nice girl, a cursory explanation from him would have been nice. Boys these days.