Charming, but single

Just days ago, I was bragging about how I wasn’t going to flip out if Passport didn’t call because I was just so happy that we seemed to be on the same page on Saturday night. I was feeling confident, cool and sexy. One glance at the little black dress still hanging on a hook in my bathroom and a smile spread across my face.

This lasted for maybe five minutes. Because, really, has patience ever been a virtue I possess?

And, it is somewhat predictable that I’ve spent the last week checking the phone for calls, thinking about why he hasn’t called, wondering if he intends to call, beginning conversations with various girlfriends about the probability of his calling and sending e-mails updating the same girlfriends on the fact that, no, he still has not called, which I know they appreciate getting while they are in important meetings focused on issues other than my love life.

The situation is tricky, my friends say, because of the long-distance factor. He can’t so much say, “Hey, meet me for a drink after work.” Because we live more than an hour away from each other. Not that we don’t have a multitude of excuses to get together – does one really need an excuse to go to New Orleans for a weekend? I certainly don’t. But there are mitigating circumstances. Would I stay at his place? Would be hang out the whole weekend? Would we meet up as a group with Southern Belle and her boyfriend?

And, most importantly, why hasn’t he called?

Southern Belle is not a big e-mailer. I rarely get one from her that is much longer than two lines. Most of them consist of “Wine Bar, 6 p.m.” or “Margaritas, 7 p.m.” And since she’s been in a relationship for four years with a man with whom she shares a mortgage, I’m fairly certain that she’s forgotten about excruciatingly long waits for information or acknowledgement. And because I don’t want to sound needy, I haven’t been pumping her for information for fear that she’ll say something silly to Passport, like, “[Charming] has asked about you 67 times, so call her. Please?”

Men, take note. Do not ask a woman’s good friend if said woman is single if you do not intend to call her. The friend is always going to share that you asked, so save us all the time and just, you know, call.

I’m trusting my instincts and pushing the voices of doubt away. That man liked me – and why shouldn’t he! – and I’ll soon be looking back at this uncertainty and giggle at myself.

Call it hopeless optimism, but I have a hunch. And that’s enough for at least a few more days.

Ed note: It is long, but you’ll survive. Promise. See Part 1 if you haven’t already.

I gathered up my liquid courage and stood, balancing in the Nine West heels I bought years ago, which have served me well and are a testament to why $85 is not too much to spend on a pair of shoes you love, put my shoulders back and, as saucily as possible, headed over to where Southern Belle and SB’s Boyfriend were talking to a tall, dark-haired man.

It took a few minutes of hellos and smiling, but finally I was introduced to Passport, 29, who lives in New Orleans and has known SB’s Boyfriend since childhood. His accent was all kinds of crazy – not Big Easy at all, more of a hybrid of Americanized Australian or British, but very faint. He still used terms like “mates” instead of “friends,” as he had just returned from years and years of living abroad, bouncing from country to country. This was terribly endearing and I teased him about it all night long.

My initial far-away instincts were correct. He was very much my type – funny and smart and chatty and tall. I can safely say we hit if off immediately, talking about work and life and his travels and beers and the Hurricane. He sat on a low banquette and I perched on an ottoman across from him, so to keep my posture nice.

It’s been awhile since I really clicked with someone this way. We talked for most of the night and I feel only a little bit bad about abandoning Prom Date and others for this man I’d just met. I felt the need to talk to him, to pick his brain, to flirt shamelessly.

I was drinking white wine and when our Very Annoyed Cocktail Waitress came by (our group had taken over not only our reserved couches, but also another group of seats) I ordered another. He also ordered an Amstel Light. (We were at a wine bar and he’d lamented the lacking beer selection.)

“What’s the name for the tab?”

“I got it,” I said, motioning for her to put it on my tab before he could pay.

“That’s sweet, you didn’t have to do that,” he said.

“Consider it a Welcome Home beer,” I said, coyly. With a wink, no less.

He grinned and said he owed me one.

It is time I came out and said it. I was totally smitten with Passport after just a few minutes. His friendly smile, his warm laugh, his strong conversation skills. It was all too much for my cynical, scorned self to handle, so when he went to smoke with SB’s Boyfriend, I joined Church Group Girl and the others to swoon while I internally questioned his intentions – Did he have a girlfriend? Was he really into me or was he just without anyone else to talk to? Was I mere moments from another dating misjudgment and intense mortification? Was I hallucinating?

The bar was about to close when Southern Belle walked up and announced that the boys wanted to go to the only place (other than a diner) that stays open all night – the Casino. I was arguing with our Very Annoyed Cocktail Waitress about $24 in extra wine on my bill and I quickly dismissed the idea of joining them. I hate casinos, not because I have a moral opposition to gambling, but because if I’m engaging in risky financial behavior, a good purse is coming home with me. That’s just how I roll.

Southern Belle went outside to relay the news to the group – us girls were calling it a night, though they were free to go to the Casino without us.

“But wait, what about your friend?” Passport asked Southern Belle.

“My friend?”

“Yes, your friend [Charming]?”

“No, she’s not coming. She doesn’t like casinos,” Southern Belle said.

And then it happened.

“Well, she’s cool. Is she single?” Passport asked.

(A Brief Interruption: Y’all. These perfect moments of chemistry and connection are so few and far between for me. Most of the nights when I dress up and stumble around in heels with super straight hair and flawless make-up, I end up feeling like I should have stayed in bed in my PJs watching Saturday Night Live while plotting revenge against the World of Love for leaving me behind. And I am saying this now and I mean it – I don’t care what happens next. I don’t care if he’s actually a creep who rides train cars ‘round the country stealing people’s identities, and possibly their souls, or if he has fifty cats and lives with his mom or has really bad hygiene or is secretly married with 37 kids or is a member of a cult or ANYTHING LIKE THAT. The fact that for ONCE IN MY LIFE I correctly guessed – GUESSED! – that a man liked me back is enough to warm my heart for this one perfect moment. Which is so sad, but whatever. I never said I wasn’t.)

Southern Belle, because she is both awesome and a lawyer, decided that perhaps she had a key piece of evidence that would re-open a stalled negotiation. She quickly came to me inside and said, “Oh honey, we are going to the Casino.”

“I hate the casino. I was thinking Jack in the Box and bed,” I said.

“[Passport] really wants you to go.”

“What?”

“He asked if you were single.”

“Which casino are we going to again?” I asked. And then we giggled and I applied some lip gloss and headed out to flirt some more.

Several hours of Passport and I flirting over bottles of water and not gambling, it was time to go home. And as the group pulled up to the corner about a half block from where I’d parked on a one-way street, I said my goodbyes and went to step out onto the curb. Passport grabbed my hand.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, [Charming],” he said. “And I know I’ll be seeing you again.”

I smiled sweetly and agreed, turned away from the car and mouthed the word “Yes!” to no one in particular as I walked to my car.

I was halfway there when I heard him playfully yelling at me from the rolled-down car window.

“Hey there, hot stuff. Looking good,” he teased and I strutted in my heels feeling every bit as confident as I should always feel, regardless of what my hair looks like or which guy is flirting with me or how cute my little black dress is.

I waved as I opened my car door and sighed as I sat inside and started the engine.

“Oh, I am so having a million of his babies,” I gushed to no one in particular. Again.

Sometimes I think it is so unfair that some people find love when others don’t. That some people have fairy tale endings and butterflies and goose pimples and pet names, while others have bad dates, unrequited love and lonely nights.

And then I think I’m being so silly, because me not having a boyfriend isn’t nearly as unjust as people starving or dying from any number of diseases or living in violent situations or generally just being miserable.

And then I hear a certain song – right now, it is “Come Away With Me” by Norah Jones – and for a few short minutes I become all weepy, drunk with thoughts of romantic picnics and having someone to dance with at weddings and that really amazing energy caused by the hand of a man in the small of my back, all reassuring and teasing at once.

So I give myself three minutes to really wallow in a combination of hope and longing, before I snap myself out of it, head up, shoulders back and carry on with my day.

I miss cool breezes on my freshly shaved legs, which peek out beneath my skirt. Warm sun that is so inviting that I could just stay outside forever – forget whatever else is going on, the things on the to do list, like working, cleaning, shopping, cooking, exercising.

I miss green. That bright green that looks like life. Crisp. Fresh. The greenest green that feels fantastic against my ankles. Because I can only wear flip flops when everything is just so light and airy and beautiful.

And the sky is so blue and spacious and it feels like it expands all around me forever. So clear.

Maybe you – whoever you are – will be there. Under the wide blue sky, in the soft green grass, while the wind tickles our skin and you slide your arm around my body and you smell so good – clean like the air and dirty like a boy – that I will just breathe you in.

And I’ll kiss your cheek and smile.

I have an insane Crush From Afar on the Wine and Beer Guy from the Fancy Mega Grocery store near my house. (Lots of capitalization there!)

Crush From Afar? Pretty self-explanatory.

He seems to be close to my age, he dresses very casually and has a stocky build that makes me want to tackle him and demand cuddling on the ground right next to the olive bar. (He also has a beard and great eyes.) He used to be the cheese guy, and I only know this because the cheese people wear faux chef jackets, I think. Now he seems to work exclusively with the wines and beers. I always see him stocking, organizing and talking to people, pointing to wines or discussing ales.

I watch from a safe distance, making excuses as to why I don’t make conversation. My hair is a mess. I’m not wearing make-up. My work clothes are rumpled. I already have selected my alcoholic purchases for the night.

And then I sneak my single person-sized cart around the cheese case and over to the breads so I can peak at him again. He just looks so relaxed, well-mannered, friendly, funny and easy to talk to. (Yes, these are things I can tell just by looking at him while pretending to be comparing flat bread.)

I have this far-fetched plan about our imaginary courtship. I will keep a particularly challenging recipe in my purse and wait until I am certain that I look fantastic – like one a day when I’ve let my hair dry in soft waves, when my eyebrows are perfectly arched and my make-up is subtle, yet outstanding, and I am wearing a flowing casual skirt with a body-hugging tee and sandals – and I gather the ingredients and fancy cheeses and seek his counsel for a mid-priced wine to pair with my fancy dish. And he spends a half-hour explaining what wine goes with Taleggio cheese or maybe earthy wild mushrooms and I listen intently and make witty wine comments. And then as I am walking away, he follows me to the pastry area and says, “I’m sorry, I can’t let you leave. This is so unprofessional of me, but you are breathtaking and intelligent. And I see you each time you come shopping and pray that you’ll ask me my opinion on a good wine and I just can’t let you leave this store without asking for your number.”

And then we get married. And go on a wine tour of Europe for our honeymoon and have a dog we name Porter because he is the color of our favorite beer. The end.

Of course, this will never come to be. Because I will never speak to him. Ever. Talking to him would only ruin my perfect fantasy of him – he will undoubtedly not be as charming and insightful in real life and then I’ll be disappointed each time I stroll through the beer section, lingering just a minute too long in hopes of catching his eye.

A girl can dream.