Richmond is small. Sometimes smaller than I care for. You grow up here and eventually you will have encountered what I like to call, “the past lives” experience or the “by proxy” realization. This simply means you meet someone later in life that you realize was at the same college party as you or the same show you went to on April 15, 1989. The worse is the “by proxy” realization where you’ve hooked up with an individual that your friend also hooked up with several years before...sometimes months. Those are fun. This Mister was someone I recalled from random group hangouts and one particular evening where absinthe and naked boys on the roof were involved. Our mutual friendships were not revealed until we hung out a few times, but I was glad it was infrequent.

You know that movie where the girl works at some country club and she has to wait on the same guy frequently. He’s kind of snotty and she’s kinda sassy and he gets on her nerves as soon as he walks in the door? Then the next thing you know they are in the pool house bathroom getting it on? Well, this is kind of that story, except less telenovela and more pragmatic interludes.

I waited on him frequently at the neighborhood pub. The pub in which I had spent countless drunken evenings, had several arguments in, and a bar that was no stranger to my tears...hey, it kept the bar clean! When I came back home from my New York experience, it gave me a place of comfort. The whiskey bottles didn’t hug back, but they felt all warm and fuzzy on the inside. It was the type of pub where everyone knew your middle name, where you had gone to dinner, and most of all, some of your deepest darkest secrets through incoherent ramblings. So, of course I worked there and of course I was privy to a lot of juicy stuff from our clientele.

This Mister was confusing. He would come in at least 3 times a week. Sometimes with one girl. Sometimes with another. I couldn’t keep track as to who he was actually involved with. He was tall and lanky, about 6’4”, blond, specs, white, very white, a sharp jawline and good shoes. He always dressed pretty hip, but couldn’t really tell how old he was. He seemed really sure of himself, the way he slouched a bit with his arm around his girl and how he ordered his Two Hearted. He was that guy you’d expect to see, but didn’t really know if you wanted to see him. He was nice enough, but had an air about him that made me want to punch him because in my head, I’m thinking, “this is a know it all” “this guy, he’s probably wearing fake glasses and talking to women about obscure memoirs he came across in France”. Turns out I was wrong. Sort of.

I had just gotten off of work to count the $38 I had made on my lame ass shift. The perk of working in a bar is that you can take that $38 and say, “man I worked hard for this money, let me enjoy it and give it right back to you”. Sure there were shift drinks, but getting “hooked” up at this place was like asking the pope if you can wear his hat. So, this night in particular, I decided to have my shift drink which consisted of Guinness and a shot of Powers which I sipped longingly. A week earlier, Mister had annoyed me when he came in two minutes before my shift switch and decided he wanted me to wait on him out on the patio. When you have worked all day and your mouth waters for that nice cold beer and a cigarette, YOU DO NOT want to carry your ass upstairs to wait on jerkface and his flavor of the moment. The display on my face was apparent. I hold nothing back. It’s part of my charm. After getting reprimanded about my attitude in front of them, he was told to head upstairs that I would happily wait on them. Grrr.

I sighed and looked around the empty bar. No potential suitors tonight, I thought. How titilating. As soon as I had decided this would be a one and done night, he walked in and sat two chairs away from me. I thought, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” My life. So torturous. He said, “Hello” and I returned the salutation with the emotion of a wet noodle and I continued my quest to finish my beer and whiskey and head on my walk home.

Food and music have a strong effect on people. If you can talk about these things, you can pretty much get to know anyone and who they are. I mean if Wire comes on and someone says, “Yessss”. You know that individual understands the significance of that band and more than likely they are worth your time. If a person mentions his favorite place to get pie, more than likely people will chime in to agree or suggest another pie place for him to try. Tonight it would be pizza. At this time, Richmond was on the verge of becoming the food destination of the country. You would see piles of people packed into the small bakery down the street in a neighborhood that didn't lend itself to borrowing sugar just a few years earlier. We were talking about which restaurants we've tried in the area and we came to the acknowledgement that one particular eatery had the best brunch. I don’t even recall how the subject of pizza came about, but the next thing I know, I’m talking across the bar to jerkface about favorite pizza places...and I’m enjoying it! A few people trickle in to sit at the bar now and Mister is suddenly sitting next to me. I hadn't ever noticed how pretty his eyes were.

We talked for some time, I think until closing time at 2am. This IT guy, of course Mr. Spectacular is a complete nerd, actually was sweet and quite intelligent. He very nonchalantly asked me to go find delicious pizza with him and I willingly said yes. Turns out those glasses aren’t fake and the obscure memoire is actually an uncelebrated period crime story author.

I never dated before. College was a lot of hangs and sometimes it stuck and sometimes it didn’t. In high school, I was never allowed to date until I was 16. There’s no “dating” punk rock and art dudes. There’s a lot of “I’ll meet you at the show” and “Do you wanna come over and watch skate videos where we will eventually makeout”, sort of scenarios, but there’s no, “I’ll pick you up in my limo at 7” or “there’s a dance Saturday night, would you like to accompany me”. So the whole dating thing was and is weird to me.

He picked me up at 6:30pm. I was hanging out on the porch as he rolled up in a nice non-American vehicle. He opened the car door and stepped out in a tailored suit that fit him like a glove. He had his arms bent, thumbs gesturing towards his chest to show me that he had indeed worn a suit and with a jovial hello came up to the porch and commented on how gorgeous I looked. My roommate looked over at me and said with a wink, "Have fun girl, I'll see you tomorrow."

Ding, ding. 10,000 points to the gentleman arriving on time in a nice car. 20,000 points for owning a suit and an extra 5,000 for opening the door. Don’t worry folks, the night’s only begun, will Mr. Spectacular take home the gold?

Very dapper indeed. He took me for pizza. Like for real pizza, just like we talked about. We did have a lovely bottle of red and some appetizers and the pizza was worth every penny. That date was probably one of my top 5 dates, solely based on how much I laughed on it. There’s also nothing worse than going on a date where there’s no reciprocation of conversation as you’re basically getting to know a stranger. He wasn’t shy, but a very apt conversationalist. We vollied questions back and forth and sarcasm flew off our tongues naturally.

It was a proper date. We ate a nice meal and then we did what we would usually do on any given night...we went to the pub. At this point, I, as a woman, start to wrestle the options of whether I’m going to go home with this guy or not. I don’t think I’ve ever had any guy make that decision for me. This Mister closed down the bar with me, drove me home and kissed me goodnight. He said he had a great time and that he'd like to do it again. At this juncture, a woman stands on a sidewalk, scratching head, confused as to what she did wrong. Horrible mentality we are trained for, but that’s what I felt like. I slowly turned around and walked up the steps and into my apartment. It all felt very disorienting.

Mr. Spectacular was not the kind of guy who texted you a lot. I responded to our date with an email giving him accolades on a fine night, like a 'thank you for taking the time' letter. He responded with replicated satisfaction and I then asked him if he’d like to attend a neighborhood block party that weekend. He accepted and that would be the catalyst for a two year stint of non-committal, confusing, and absolutely infuriating coupling that was completely NOT a relationship.

I have never heard the use of the word autonomy so much in my life, nor have I ever had a use for words like pragmatic and utilitarian. Those descriptors didn't exist in my vocabulary. Sure, I knew from the start that this guy wasn’t in it to win it, but surely you can understand where I’m coming from when I say, WTF. Serial monogamous people hear Charlie Brown’s teacher when it comes to people that say they don’t want a relationship, that’s a challenge right?. Everyone wants a relationship, right? We spent a lot of time together and I tried to be cool about it when he would kick me out of his house at night. “I like to sleep alone”, he would say. I don’t know why, but everytime he did that I felt rejected when I got home. Shouldn’t be that big of a deal, right? Yet, my logic rule book states, “If the presence of the act of fornication takes place in residence, one must assume cuddle time and eventual spending of the night or one might deem such acts as one night stands/booty calls.” Don’t get me wrong, he asked me to stay a lot and I did of course, but once that starts happening on a habitual cycle, one has a tendency to become quite comfortable with said situation.

When we first starting “dating” he mentioned his ex wife. He had been very clear about why he ended the marriage and how much she hated him. I understand that relationships fall apart. So, I listened and left it at that, surely something was wrong with her that he didn't want to stay. We also had a joint respect and understanding that we were friends with our exes. Not a big deal. What I didn’t realize is that his most recent ex had priority over me. I tend to not share well. I also tend not to waste my time with others who do not wish to put me on the throne once elected.

This wasn’t a jealousy issue, but more of a “am I not good enough for first place” issue. There were several opportunities for brunch after waking up in his arms, where he abruptly would state he was having brunch with her., pants on before I could get the covers off of me. I would lock my jaw, stare at the mass collection of books, always focused on Einstein, collect my clothing off the floor and head out, back to my apartment. “Be cool” was my mantra with him because I started to think there was something wrong with me for thinking his behavior was a bit cold.

The best was Thanksgiving, we had been seeing each other for about four months. I decided that since his family did not live here, nor did he really celebrate the holiday, I would invite him to my mother's so he may be allowed to indulge in my mother’s ten course holiday extravaganza. I was astoundingly shocked that his answer was no and that he was spending it with his ex’s family. At this point, my friends would have slapped me across the face and told me to wake the fuck up, that this guy is not into you. I however repeated, “be cool, be cool” in my head and said, "Oh, well hope you have a nice holiday."

After this little stint of cat and mouse, we came to the conclusion that we checked all boxes saying, “I like you.” What we had agreed upon was a non-committal, no marriage on the table, autonomous relationship, that would consist of hanging out, going to shows, eating all meals together, cooking together, running together, accompanying each other to all parties, reading together, traveling together, meeting his co-workers, and lest not forget the meeting of family. He called me his girlfriend, I called him my boyfriend. Sounds fantastic.

I do love how people of this nature seem to find sentiments in the wrong things. A kitchen towel is hardly a gift to give someone you care about. It seems a bit misplaced, no? Mister was incredibly sweet at times. I was comfortable with him. We enjoyed each other’s company and he introduced me to great things like binging on a television show, playing darts, or putting arugula on pizza. We always seemed to get it on nicely. So, a girl would seem to think that when things go this swimmingly, that attitudes towards certain subjects have changed, ahem...insert R word here.

Here’s where I erred. I got too comfortable with all the sweetness. I got too comfortable with the routine of Waffle House breakfast after epic pub nights. I got too comfortable with sitting on the back porch sipping wine. I was over the moon at how much my mother adored him and how kind and understanding he was towards her FWS (Foreign Woman Syndrome.) I got too chummy with his friends. Fell in love with his family. And I definitely got too comfortable making beds, doing laundry and cleaning his house. What I did notice was his irritation with my runny nose, how he would repel at my touch at times, how he had a very secretive nature about him, and how he became ever so consumed by books. I once told him I had wished I had a book inked all over my body so that he would find ME that engrossing.

I’m not a quitter. Surely things would change. He decided to take me on a vacation to his parent’s home on the coast. I love his parents. They are incredibly kind and good people and always made me feel at home. We were privileged to have the home to ourselves most of the week, private pool and all! I was in heaven...

No. No, heaven does not work like this.

I remember the moment we got settled, he planted himself on a chair, crossed his legs, pushed his specs up, sighed and began reading. It was as though I had disappeared from the room. I decided to mimic the gesture by grabbing a New Yorker and one upping him with an accompanying cocktail. We sat across from each other, him engulfed in some fictional dustbowl drama while I pretended to read and mentally complimenting myself on how good my cocktail tasted. Here we were, huge pretty beach home with a jacuzzi bath and a private pool. Are you thinking of what I'm thinking in this moment?

That vacation was more of a confirmation of the spiraling down of a consensual agreement. The week was mostly pleasant with bike rides and a few beach walks. There was one sexual encounter which took place on a twin bed, but was made to be awkward due to the house rules. I felt like I was in high school.

We would hit thrift stores. He had to go to the thrift stores. I thought maybe it was to find some unique items for his home, maybe a cool shirt or something. Nope, not a chance. I found him squatted down low to the ground, scanning the row of books, reading the backs of them and then putting a pile together. I sighed in surrender.

I find reading sexy. I love a good book. I find libraries to be a bit of a turn on. I love it when I’m read to, especially when soaking in the tub. No man has done this for me. The point is, I love the written word. I could no longer satiate Mr. Spectacular’s need for literary consumption. We continued to go out and although things were acceptable, I realized this would be ending soon.

When you work in a bar, it is a study in psychology and the human condition. You become quite keen to people’s insides real quick. The pub was like my second home, except I couldn’t kick anyone out of this one. On some nights you would get guys who would say douchey things or belch loudly and laugh about how triumphant it was. Women who decide that being overly forward is somehow sexy. People that talk about their personal lives with such public candor that you feel dirty just listening. I’m a bit old fashioned. I like guys being gentleman and women acting like ladies. If people realized this, then maybe their quality of bait and hook would be far more supreme than the algae they collect at the end of the night. I digress. There were certain people who were in the beginning stages of Cheers status at the pub. There were strict unspoken laws about these types of things. To be an established stool occupier there had to be a level of seniority and the following rules:

You knew the pub by its original name, owner, and bartenders.
You had to have been allowed to stay after hours.
You had to shoot Jameson.
You had to offer some sort of subject of conversation.
You could not complain about the music
You were a smoker.
You had to have named at least one "Shot of the Night"

There was a girl, let's call her Natalie, who was coming in quite frequently. I found her to be a bit loud when she was drunk and therefore quite obnoxious. I watched her one night try to convince a friend of mine that he should take her out. It was a display of absolute farce. The kind of comedy that makes you cringe and laugh to yourself. No game whatsoever. I, of course tried to help her out and guide her because sometimes you have to use your wisdom for good, people. After seeing Natalie several times at the pub, she somehow thought that we were buddies. She was nice enough, but as soon as she started drinking, it got annoying. I soon found out that Natalie worked freelance at Spec's place of business. You see where this is going right?

As soon as someone tries to make excuses for other people’s ridiculous behaviors, that’s when your ears should perk to position. I began to notice that she was there every time we were and that they would end up talking to each other accompanied by lots of giggles. At this point, I was in alert mode.

Our non-relationship had become books, coffee, and goodbyes consisting of pats on the back. I hate it when people hug like that. You can hug a fellow man like that, but don't ever pat a woman on the back. He no longer asked me to stay at night or would say, "I guess you can stay." Boy, does that sound inviting. We weren't having sex anymore and when I did spend the night he hugged his side of the bed with such protection you'd think it was Fort Knox.

When your mate starts to ignore you and becomes an emotionless dickweed, you should bail at this point. I have to admit, writing these words makes me want to slap myself across the face. We sat at the pub one night after dinner. It was the place where he could smoke and not feel bad about himself. There wasn’t a lot of conversation rolling off the tongue and I noticed he had been checking his phone a lot lately. He started talking to a friend next to him and I proceeded to play trivia on my phone. After a few beers, he turns to me and says, “Hey, I’m gonna go, I’m pretty beat.” I just kind of looked at him with a raised eyebrow and replied with, “Oh, ok, so you’re leaving now...without me?” He gave me a quick peck, told me to have a good night, paid the tab and was gone. I ordered another drink. The very attractive guy sitting next to me with the winning smile, says, “If you were my girl, I’d never just leave you at the bar like that. That guy isn’t very smart.” Indeed. Not one bit.

The breakup was as placid in its delivery as our non-relationship had become. A lot of, “we want different things”, “I need my autonomy”, “I don’t want to be in a relationship and I think you do”. Then there was the, “wait, you thought we were in a committed relationship”. He has the balls to say this to my face. Two years of holidays with family, two years of trips, two years of keeping his stupid video game playing a secret, two years of adorning his arm at work events, and two years of absolutely too fucking much of Guided by Voices live shows on youtube. I don't know if I was crying because I was sad to be leaving this history or because I was angry about time wasted.

He was ultimately very convincing. I recalled one night in the pub with old friends and one who was friends with his ex wife. She had mentioned his leaving her and was quite abrasive in saying that he left her so he could fuck other women. He protested. She laughed. I recalled.

A few weeks of him trying to be my friend and me relaying that I needed some time to get over his dumb ass, I finally allowed myself to meet him for happy hour. You see, what I failed to notice was that he needed to be my friend. That he couldn't be the bad guy...again. I would eventually get over it and we'd be friends again. As a peace offering, I had invited him to a special event. He never showed. His excuse was his friend got fired from her job and he had to be there for her. Guess who?

In an instant, Mr. Spectacular in all his need to be an autonomous being was now seen with Miss Natalie. It was now the small of her back his hand rested on and it is she that would escort him to birthday parties of friends who no longer talk to me and, it is she who will buffer his social awkwardness at work functions, all while living in some fantasy that she will be the One. Younger and most importantly, more gullible than I, since she is aware of our story. Three years later, when I ask how his girlfriend is, he still replies with, "She's not my girlfriend." I'm wondering if she knows that. The thing about Richmond is, it is quite miniscule and downright incestuous. As I sit with not one, but two romantic encounters of his, ironically enough, the ex before me and the fling after me, we compare notes. It is humorous having an actual fly on the wall aspect to your ex. You get to hear what they thought of you and what they think you broke up over. Alas, hindsight is 20/20.