11:54 PM. That impatient crawl toward lunch. The IMs begin about where to go, what to eat, whether to get a coffee afterward, maybe even a cupcake. Us cubicle drones take our lunch break quite seriously, so when my desk phone rings, I don’t even look the caller ID, I just grab it and answer…and then cringe.
It’s Craig, the perpetually single friend of my good married friends. Craig, of the pressed khaki pants, the tucked in shirt, clean cut haircut and pristine fingernails. Craig, who I’ve been *pointedly* seated next to at countless dinner nights at my married friends’ home. Craig, whose embarrassing karaoke version of Queen’s “Big Bottomed Girls” nearly drove all his friends out of the bar, pleading to strangers that they didn’t know him. Craig means really, really well. But why the hell is Craig on my office phone?
“Ingrid, I bet you’re wondering why I’m calling you at your work, or why I have your number in the first place!”
This man is relentlessly sweet. He says all of this in the most sincere, open way possible. He isn’t afraid of being Craig, every moment of his life.
“I assume Lara or Andy gave you my number. How’s it going, bro.” I try to sound like a buddy and less like a seductress. I also try to sound hungry, to get him off the phone. “You’ll have to pardon me for sounding rushed, it’s almost lunchtime here.”
He gets the hint and starts to talk fast. It turns out he has two tickets to a beer tasting. He won them in some kind of raffle, his mother can’t come with him, and he heard I’m a bit of a beer connoisseur, among other things, so…
Can you believe this guy? He’s not the least bit ashamed to tell me his mother was his first pick for this date. I feel the imaginary silver medal hanging around my neck like a noose.
I try to buy myself some time by telling him I might have plans that day, and could I get back to him? Even this least bit of encouragement seems to satisfy, so I’m able to shuttle him off my phone in time to hitch a ride to lunch.
In the car on the way to our club sandwiches, I start laying it all out for the girls in the office. They all coo and chatter away, saying Craig seems perfectly fine.
“Let him buy you a drink.”
“Let him buy you many drinks!”
“At least let him take you to dinner.”
“Dinner is good. And you don’t have to DO IT with him anyhow.”
“Nobody has to do it with anyone. C’mon, he sounds nice!”
Then I tell them about Tomás.
I also met Tomás at Lara and Andy’s house. But Lara and Andy didn’t seat me next to Tomás. Turns out Mr. Tomás is bad news. He’s made the rounds with quite a few of Andy’s girl friends, without Lara or Andy’s sage match-making skills to intervene. Tomás was on the loose at that last dinner party. He cornered me while we waited for the single bathroom in the house.
Unshaven and brooding. Black cardigan. Floppy hair. Beatles boots. Yeah, I love a guy in Beatles boots. I was completely aware of every inch of this gentleman in that small dark hallway far away from the frivolity of the party. I could smell his cologne and feel my pulse quickening. He suddenly leaned in close to talk to me.
“Ingrid, I read something interesting the other day on the internet, maybe we can talk about it while we wait, hmm. According to the Kinsey Institute, 54% of men think about sex every day, sometimes several times a day. But women, only 19% of women think about sex every day. Why is that?”
Emboldened by the 4 huge glasses of Shiraz I had with dinner, I looked up at him, right into those dangerous eyes.
“Well, I might be inclined to believe I think about it a little more than that. Maybe even a lot more than that.”
He smiled cryptically, perhaps proud of my answer, perhaps titillated, as he brushed a bit of my hair away from my shoulder with a finger. I nearly f***ing fainted.
Of course, then the door swung open and it was Andy himself, casting a judgmental eye on the lack of distance between Tomás and I. Andy let me into the bathroom first and then seemed to usher Tomás away, probably to shoo him away from ruining my life.
Andy and Lara don’t know that I gave Tomás my phone number that night. All my numbers – cell phone, land line, the coveted office number that Craig had to dig out of Lara. I gave him my email, told him to find me on Facebook. It’s a little embarrassing. I should have given him my measurements and Social Security number too.
Tomás hasn’t called. But Craig has.
I feel guilty taking dates from a man I have no sexual or romantic feelings for whatsoever. But…he’s calling me, ready to buy me delicious appetizers, entrees, and desserts just to share a little time with me, while Tomás is clearly playing games.
So what would you do? Do you sail away on the boat to Dullsville or wait for a passionate shipwreck to occur?
The words “shipwreck” and “heartbreak” sound remarkably alike.
What’s a girl to do.
(Photo By: hrlndspnks – Tomas and Craig not pictured, to keep their identity safe.)
I would be waiting for Tomas to call… I never learn