We only went on two dates, but I went way too far with him way too fast. I spent the night in his bed after our first date, partially because I thought it was romantic that he kissed me when I was mid-sentence on a couch at Bar Nine. Now I realize that he just wasn't paying attention to what I was saying, and I just wanted someone to make me feel attractive again.
He was short and smarmy with curly blond-tipped hair, a recent transplant from California. He really liked Robert Downey Jr., which should have been a red flag. I mean, I like Robert Downey Jr., but he REALLY liked Robert Downey Jr. After the whole drug-addled breaking and entering incident, one has to distance oneself at least slightly.
I woke up the next morning, New Year's Eve morning 1999, facing the wall of his apartment and a window that looked out on a dingy courtyard in Hell's Kitchen. I heard helicopters and felt my chest tighten; I thought for sure that everyone's paranoid Y2K fears had come true and I was going to have to face the end of the world with him.
When the world didn't end, I took a bus to my parents' house, and spent what I intuitively knew would be our last holiday together as a family unit. I took the car and drove to the end of Jocelyn Court, where they hadn't finished building the new houses yet. Copeland's "Fanfare for the Common Man" was playing on the radio, and I got out and lay on the hood and stared into the blackness. Out of it came a shooting star.
The Troll had wanted me to go with him to Times Square.
We went on one more date, to that crappy Stuart Little movie because he bragged that he had read the script when he worked at Disney. I wore the "Regardes-moi dans les yeux" shirt that I got at a street fair in Paris, but did not brag about that. Taking some bad advice from a friend, I also did not bring up the fact that we should not have snogged so intensely on our last date. Consequently, things were awkward, and doomed.