Friday Night Blues
You decide that whether or not he is going to the gallery opening, you will look effing hot anyway. Still, if he’s there, it can’t hurt to look this good.
You wear your rip-off version of a J. Crew summer dress: brown w/ tiny white dots scattered across a flattering fit, cropped just above the knee. Cleavage comes courtesy Victoria’s Secret, shoes á la Chaco, and a linen scarf from the Ross discount bin that totally makes the outfit. Handcrafted enameled earrings up top, hair slightly controlled but adequately wild with a bit of blonde for summer, and you head down the mountain with chutzpah.
Of course, that doesn’t change the fact that he flat out told you he’s emotionally unavailable. He likes you. He’s flattered. He thinks you’re beautiful and genuine and fantastic. And he’s not ready. You wonder about this in long moments all week, staring at nothing but the movie in your mind’s eye. How can he take your face in his palms and kiss you like that, kiss you better than almost anyone, and be emotionally unavailable?
It is a fruitless question. “No womanly powers can make a man like that move off the single sofa unless he wants to,” your friend told you this week. She’s completely right. More to the point, it sums up the artsy-loner-man-with-his-harem type of bachelor that’s found around this community. You know this type and you’re sick of them.
How could you have forgotten this?
He doesn’t come to the opening tonight but you still look hot. It doesn’t matter though; not in the same way. Which is why, on the way home, all you want is a pint of soy ice cream. The logistical problem of a) no cooler, and b) 17 miles to the grocery store, prevent such a trip. But still, the verdict is clear: One more unavailable man equals one more nagging hole in your gut. You keep trying to fill this spot. Like an ulcer, it won’t relent.