That’s not fair. And you’re not even letting me explain. It’s not even that I’ve been single for so long, I guess most of my time in New York, right. No, it’s my unwillingness to so much as go on a harmless date or return phone calls or, god, even text messages.
You think I don’t know that? Of course I have trust issues. And control issues, too, you’re forgetting those.
Yeah, I’ve torn up little pieces of paper with phone numbers. I’ve deleted emails. You know, I collect the beginnings of stories and choose not to see them through.
It’s the same thing. It’s always me saying, Thanks for asking me out, I appreciate it, I do. I’m not gonna go out with you, but I sure love that you asked me. It’s cute how you want to invite me to dinner or a drink. It will be another meaningless gesture to get into my pants, right? I don’t want anyone in my pants, or my bed, or my inbox. Pun unintended, for once.
No, you’re right, I don’t say that to them. I shouldn’t have to.
Don’t ask me what I want, I don’t know. Maybe it was him, and maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I’ve always been like this. When my exboyfriend, remember, the serious one from college, asked me out, I didn’t return his phone call. He winked at me at a bar and sent me an email. A few days later we made out at a party. Just like that. Then I put him off for weeks. He thought I was flaky. I wasn’t flaky, I just didn’t want to go out with him. The second he showed interest in me, I lost interest in him. There’s that story again.
You know which story. The one about me getting bored. Or feeling too anxious. So I drink, or I lean on something like drink.
When was the last time I was interested in anyone of real value? Fuck, I don’t know. Last week. Last year. Once. Never. I don’t know. Next question.