It Wasn’t so Bad

We all have our stories about being wronged in romance, most of which are sad, sometimes heartbreaking, and often difficult to share without a long explanation and a great many details.

This is not quite a romance gone wrong. It is more of a romance that never existed in the first place, except apparently in one person’s hopeful imagination.

For the sake of kindness, I will call him Norman.

I had known Norman for many years and had been friends with his wife. I divorced and moved away from the area for two years. During that same time, his wife left him. When I eventually moved back, Norman was still living at the end of the street in the cul-de-sac, and every morning he would run his dogs up the street to get the mail.

Actually, Norman ran his dogs.

In a full suit.

With a dress shirt, tie, dress shoes, and a tiny little teacup dog.

He was tall, lanky, and awkward to begin with, so running was not the most picturesque of sports for him. It could have been, perhaps, under different circumstances. But not in a suit and tie, galloping up the street behind a tiny dog like a corporate Big Bird late for a meeting.

A habit that had formed over only the last month, he would say good morning as he ran by, increasingly more often – just as I happened to be leaving to drive my daughter to school before going to the office. My daughter, who was around eight years old at the time, said, “Mommy, don’t you think he is kind of obviously running by every morning exactly when we are leaving?”

I had, of course, already noticed, but I said, “We must just be on the same schedule.”

The weather got warmer, and as I went to and fro bringing my daughter to dance lessons or watching her play outside, his habit of running by became more frequent. Oddly enough, it also seemed to be right on what was apparently “our shared schedule”.

Since his house was at the end of the street, his bedroom window could clearly see my driveway.

The coincidences increased so much that one day my son said, “Um, Mom? You know that Norman guy down the street? He’s giving me the creeps. Every time I’m outside, he walks by seven or eight times. I think maybe he’s looking for you.”

Ugh.

It was not that I had ever had any negative interactions with him before. His personality was just odd to me. I know that may sound unkind, but let’s face it. We know when the vibe is there, and we know when it is not. With Norman, the vibe was as far away as it could possibly be.

I remembered visiting his wife when they were still together. He would saunter into the room and start singing loudly, or begin telling a really lame joke. I was courteous, but we just did not meld at all. I cherished his wife. She was playful, sweet, clever, and good-natured. He was, in one word, awkward.

Like Big Bird without Snuffleupagus.

Awkward stance. Awkward conversation. Awkward jokes. Awkward silences.

Finally, the day this story really begins arrived. He had my schedule so down pat that he caught me just as I was arriving home from my daughter’s dance lesson. He walked right into the driveway and started talking.. as I was noticing and trying to scurry up the driveway before his overzealousness put me in a really unfavourable position.

“Oh boy,” I thought. “Let’s go watch some paint dry. Maybe 15 coats of it. On separate days. It would be better than having this conversation.”

There were the usual “how are yous,” the “how are the kids,” the “oh my gosh, so sorry to hear about your divorce,” and then the question I knew was coming.

“So, are you seeing anyone?”

“Yes, I am,” I said. “It is a long-distance relationship, but I am really hoping he can move here. He has a job offer in Toronto.”

I thought that was a pretty clear message.

Apparently not.

“We should get together sometime,” he said. “Catch up on life, kids, all of that.”

“I don’t think that is a good idea, Norman. I am seeing someone, as I said, and I would not want to date anyone else.”

“Oh.”

Long pause. Awkward at that! He did not have the courtesy to allow closure with grace. I really felt out of place and just wanted.. needed to get in the house and out of this quickly going south conversation.

“Well, it is Katie’s sixteenth birthday next week, and she doesn’t want me around. How about we just hang out, grab something to eat, and chat, just as old friends?”

Another long pause.

I knew where this was going. I could see that sparkle of hope in his eyes, the kind that had obviously filtered out enough of the conversation to hear only what it wanted. I felt uncomfortable on so many levels. I was not interested, even if I had been single. I had never felt that we gelled, and I simply knew it was a bad idea.

His eyes had a little too much pleading hope. Not good. Not good at all.

Still, the pause grew increasingly awkward.

“Listen,” he said, “you can have an evening out, and I can give Katie some peace and quiet. No expectations.”

The pressure built, and now I was feeling like a really mean woman. What if I was wrong and he just needed out of the house? I was mean.

“Okay,” I said, “but only as long as you understand that I want to remain friends only, and I am seeing someone I am very happy with, despite the distance.”

He gleefully agreed. Gleefully. We set the date, exchanged phone numbers, and our night was to be two days away.

The next morning – before noon – at work, he called.

Seven times.

Oh my gosh. Seven times.

“So, I was thinking. Where would you like to go eat?”

Twenty minutes later, he called again.

“Oh, and don’t worry about whether it is an expensive restaurant. I have not been out in a long time and would like to enjoy a nice meal.”

Hadn’t been out in a long time? No kidding.

Twenty minutes later, he called again.

“Oh, by the way, do you prefer Italian food, or would you rather a seafood-type place?”

“Norman, can we talk about this later? I am new in this position, and it is an open space, so it is awkward to speak. I will think about where we can eat. I tend to prefer Italian, though. If you have a favourite place, just make reservations.”

He sounded a bit disappointed, but agreed.

Twenty minutes later, yes, really, he called again. Twenty minutes after I asked him not to call, he called —- twenty minutes later.

I apologized to all my colleagues. We sat in a bull-pen style room, all facing each other, which was apparently the best approach for recruitment, sales, and the complete destruction of personal dignity.

“Oh, okay,” he said. “So you want me to pick? Uhhhh, I know this great Italian place.”

“Oh, good. Whatever you choose will be fine.”

“Or we could just go to another place I know,” he said, with a defined lilt of hope in his voice.

My eyes rolled back, and I sighed. This was getting so frustrating that I wanted to cancel, but I didn’t because I actually felt bad for the guy.

“I’m really sorry, Norman, but wherever you pick will be fine, I am sure. I really have some calls to make, and it is an open environment here, so everyone can overhear my conversations.”

“Oh yeah. Sorry. Yeah. Sorry. I will call you later then.”

Oh my gosh. I did not want another phone call.

Twenty minutes later, he seriously called again.

I did not pick up that time, or the next time, or the next time, all of which were about twenty minutes apart. I let his messages go to voicemail.

My goodness. How was I going to face an entire evening of this?

At 5:00, the day was finally over. I drove home to get my daughter ready for dance, and guess who came walking up the driveway again?

“Norman, I know we agreed to go out as friends to chat on Friday, but I really think somehow I must have given you the wrong impression. I don’t want this to be a date. I am already very much in love with someone, and we have been dating for two years now.”

We hear the term “his face fell,” and we picture it, but what is it really? What is that term describing?

I will tell you.

It was his face in that moment.

His head dropped like a sad puppy. His eyes looked down, and he muttered, almost to himself, “I know. No worries. We’ll just go for some good food and great conversation.”

Thank God, I thought. He understands.

My gut told me otherwise.

The next day was the day of the not-a-date night. I was working from our downtown location, so I was not at my desk. When I remotely checked my messages, there were five messages from him. In the last one, he actually sounded downhearted and discouraged, wondering why I had not picked up the phone.

I didn’t think I could handle speaking with him, so I sent him a text saying I was out of the office and asked him to wait until the day was over to call me on my cell.

It worked.

It worked, but by then I had gone from feeling awkward to dreading the evening entirely.

He drove up the street to my driveway at precisely 6:00. I had practically begged for 7:00, but he insisted on earlier because Katie wanted him out of the house as early as possible. Norman reminded me of a happy puppy dog as I climbed into the front seat of his family van.

“Oh boy, isn’t this great? After all this time, we get to go out for dinner!”

I smiled. “Yes, it is nice to get out for a change.”

He was timid, but excited. He fell all over his words and chattered away all the way to the restaurant, which happened to be one of my favourites at the time. I may have been in for a long night, but at least I knew I enjoyed the ambiance of the restaurant and the excellent selection of Italian food.

The night was long. Very.

Very unpleasantly long. Every bad-date comedy movie unfolded in slow-motion.

My gut was right. I learned to trust it sooner.

Awkward silence. Awkward conversation. Awkward jokes. Awkward pauses. Awkward glances that made the pit of my stomach feel more stressed than it already was.

Norman was not the best at making conversation, so I decided to fill in the blanks. I am not comfortable with small talk at all, so I put on the glib disguise of chattiness and told him one story after another to kill the dragging awkwardness of this dark-comedy-happening-in-my-life night.

The people at the tables next to us came and went. Our meal had been finished for quite a while. I suggested it might be time to leave.

He looked at me.

Long pause.

Google-eyed.;

And stared.. for way, way too long.

Oh my gosh. This is so not happening.

“We’re staring at each other,” he said, with puppy-love hope written all over his face.

Dang.

No.

“No,” I said. “I was just waiting for you to answer me.”

“Oh. I thought we were staring at each other. Uh, I was staring at you.”

Earnest hope welled up on his face again.

“Oh,” I said. “Well, that is very kind of you. So, shall we head home then? It seems everyone in the restaurant has left.”

I smiled the most genuine smile I had smiled all night. I was so relieved that the night was finally over. It had been so very uncomfortable.

“So, should we go somewhere for dessert?”

Hope was literally oozing from his face.

“We just had dessert and coffee. Thank you, though. I think we should call it a night. I am really tired, and it is almost 11:00.”

I smiled sweetly and put my hands on my lap.

“Oh. Well, no. I mean, Katie said I can’t come home until midnight. We have to stay out at least another hour.”

Really?

I mean, really?

After this frightful night, preluded by two depressing days, I had to make it last another hour when I was so tired from stressing about it the night before that I could not sleep?

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” I said, with a shimmer of hope that he would take pity on me and just go home, then head upstairs and leave Katie and her friends to their party.

But no.

He put his chin on his hand, leaned forward onto the table, and said with gooey-googly-goggly eyes, “Me neither. I was just so excited about tonight.”

Oh, for Pete’s sake.

Had I not made it abundantly clear that this was not a date?

I was stupefied.

“Okay,” I said. “Why don’t we just head down to the Lakeshore for a walk then?”

I figured that at least a walk was a more controllable length of time. I could get us back to the car in time to be home by midnight.

We arrived at the Lakeshore, which, typical for that time of year, was buzzing with lovers, families, and every kind of person enjoying the spectacular summer night. The quaint shops along the street were still open, and he decided we should have ice cream.

Straight to my hips, but at least if I were eating an ice cream cone, I would not feel as obligated to speak with him, and the silences that had taken over the night would not be so awkward.

We sauntered along the street, not speaking. Then, barely above a whisper, he said, “Can you believe this?”

I know this sounds harsh.. but I had set boundaries that were blatantly ignored. My eyes rolled.

“What?”

“Can you believe this? I mean, here we are after so many years of knowing each other, out together. You and me. Who would’ve thought this would happen?”

I sensed him creeping a little closer towards me, so I edged toward the other side of the sidewalk. He crept closer. I crept to the opposite edge of the sidewalk.

Dang. I was at the end of the walkway.

“I mean, it’s you and me. The stars in the sky. A perfect night out. It’s as if we were meant to be together.”

What the actual hell???

Seriously?

How was it possible that he was saying this? I felt really disrespected and annoyed.

I had talked about my boyfriend all night. I had made it clear that this was not a date. I had tried to squash any hope of us being together. I thought he understood.

His hand, as if a separate entity from the rest of him, started to reach out for mine.

I felt his arm before I felt his hand. I tried to imperceptibly pull my own fearful hand toward my body, but then realized his hand was going to keep going and would touch my hip if I didn’t let him take my hand.

“And we can go to Stratford Festival this summer,” he said. “I have season tickets.”

I felt his hand against mine and his fingers, like long, desperate tentacles, reach out to find mine.

This could not be happening.

No way.

I had talked about my sweetheart all night long. I had never let him think for a moment that I was available. I had been very conscientious about making sure he knew I was deeply in love and hoping to marry my boyfriend. I had consciously given no available signals. I did not flirt. I did not smile coyly. I did not make my eyes sparkle. I dressed modestly. I purposefully kept away from anything that could in any way lead him to believe there was a chance of us seeing each other.

Yet here I was, his hand now touching mine, fingers searching for my own as he beamed up at the moon and told me how perfect we were together.

He did not look at me as his hand searched out my own. He ignored my hand retreating and found my baby finger. I folded the rest of my fingers away.

This could not be happening.

Somehow, I turned us in the other direction and got my hand back. I was silenced by the horrible awkwardness of the situation. He was silenced by the thought of the perfect beginning of love meant to be.

Finally, we reached the car.

He was talking again.

A lot.

He did not just talk. His words tumbled out. Fumbled out.. mumbled out like marbles from a fountain. Endless fountain.

Tumbling, fumbling and mumbling about where we were going next. About what he liked to do. About all the plans he apparently imagined were forming.

“And won’t the kids be so excited? They’ve always loved you so much!”

I could not take it anymore.

“Norman, I think there may be some misunderstanding between us.”

He glanced over at me as he was positioning himself to drive.

“You are really sweet, and I have enjoyed this evening, but I am in a relationship, and I have been very clear in saying that I don’t want to date anyone else, including you.”

He visibly sank down in his seat. Way down.

No, he did not just sink down. He slumped down. He actually folded himself, draping over the steering with his head loosely hanging to dramatize that moment as he behaved as a young child had just had his favourite toy taken from him in a time out.

“I am so, so very sorry,” I said. “You are sweet, and if the timing were different, I would have considered seeing you again.”

Or not.

“Please forgive me if you felt this was a date, but I told you several times that I did not want to date anyone but my boyfriend. It was nothing more than a night of catching up because you needed to be out of the house. I do not believe I gave you the wrong impression.”

He was now slumped so low that he had his head resting on his hands, which were resting on the steering wheel.

I was floored.

Honestly. I did not expect this level of disregard.

I am never at a loss for words, but at that moment, I could not think of a single thing to say.

He did not start the car. He did not take his head off the steering wheel. He just sat there for a very long time.

Time tick-tocked in the thick, tumultuous silence.

“Norman?”

He let out an exaggerated, deep, deep, sad sigh and said, “Okay.”

“Okay?” I asked. “I mean, from the moment you asked me, I had said I was unable to make this evening a date. It was nothing more than a night of catching up because you needed to be out of the house. I do not believe I gave you the wrong impression.”

He did not answer.

He just pulled out of the parking lot, still hunched over, his face crumpled. I thought he was going to cry. It sounds like I am taking artistic liberty for the sake of sounding dramatic, but I am not. He looked like he was going to cry.

He remained silent for all twenty very long minutes it took to get home. Twenty very long minutes with him, petulant and ogreish.

I did not want to speak, so I sat in silent awkwardness, imagining the tick-tocking of the silent digital clock on the dashboard as we inched our way closer to home.

We arrived. Finally.

I thanked him for the evening and said I was sorry there had been some misunderstanding. He looked frustrated, even a bit angry.

I could not deal with this. He was actually angry. Wow.

He simply said, “Goodnight.”

I closed the door, ending the horrible night.

I always knew he was odd. I knew from the runs up and down the street that something was going sideways fast. I hated that all night he ignored my clear boundaries and made me feel awkward.

I was really offended at how he had been ogling me, and I should have stuck to my no. Instead, I left feeling guilty for having hurt his fragile feelings and angry for not listening to my own instinct.

Funny enough, I never again saw him walking the dogs, or rather running the dogs, in the morning, afternoon or evening anymore. Once in a while, we would drive by each other on the street, and I would wave. He would glumly return a raised hand as he glanced away.

I have not seen him in years, much to my relief.

I feel guilty for thinking so poorly of him, but he did not play fair, and he did not respect what I had told him. I hope he was able to find someone who appreciated his goofy sense of humour and his enthusiasm.

As for me, I drove home that night thinking that maybe being on my own with a boyfriend 700 km away wasn’t so bad after all.

And I smiled.