jeffy mcbroadway rears his ugly head . . . again.

Last week I was surfing the personals on a cheap online dating site when I received an IM from fellow singleton je577:

“Great profile. Color me a fan.”

I looked at je577’s profile. No way. I typed back.

“Hi, Jeff. Fancy meeting you here.”

There was a pause.

“Yeah, right?”

“You have no idea who I am, do you?”

Jeff and I dated two years ago. I had just discovered online dating. He sent me his headshot. He was handsome, a smile both wry and self-deprecating played about his face. His eyes looked kind. We dated about six months. He was generously endowed, a fact of which he was enormously proud. I suppose if I was a skinny white guy with a huge dick, I would be as well. For me, his masculinity was eclipsed somewhat by his career as a musical theater actor. He tap-danced while we waited for the subway. I cringed somewhere deep inside.

Jeff decided he wanted condom-free sex with me. He’d just been tested. Wouldn’t I do the same? Shortly after I got tested, Jeff stopped calling me. I was puzzled. I got my test results back. In the clear, I called him. He was angry, resentful. Why had I stopped returning his calls?

“What are you talking about? You haven’t called me in two weeks!”

“Whatever, Kath. I really don’t need this in my life right now.”

“Don’t need what? You asked me to get tested. I went. Then you drop off the face of the earth. And now you’re telling me-“

Jeff hung up. I never heard from him again. Until last week. He was in New York for a few days. His dad had passed away suddenly a few months prior. He was helping his mom out in South Carolina and periodically visiting NYC for auditions.

We sat across from each other at El Azteca on 9th avenue. He attempted to explain why he didn’t recognize me when he saw my profile. My hair had been curly when we dated. Now it’s straight. I didn’t believe him but I didn’t care enough to argue. We ordered guacamole, which was prepared with mortar and pestle at our table. He nursed his drink. Clearly, there would only be one round of margaritas.

“So, how have you been?” he asked.

“Good, real good.”

“Are you okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m getting a vibe from you like you don’t want to be here.”

“Um, I’m really not trying to give anything off, Jeff.”

“It’s just . . .Hesitation, I understand. But this is something else.”

He was being so fucking careful.

“Chicks love closure, Jeff. We rarely get it, though. That’s why I’m here.”

“You’re just as blunt as ever.”

“You never knew what to do with that, did you?”

“Kath, I’m sorry. I really liked you.”

“And you freaked out,” I stared at the salt on my glass.

“I wasn’t ready to feel that way about someone.”

“That would have been nice to know.”

Jeff’s face took on that patient, vaguely pissy look that I remembered so well. The wheels were turning. He was planning, picking his words.

“So, let’s have it, “ I said.

“You got tested. It scared me.”

“You asked me to get tested. You asked me if I would lie to you, pretend that I went on the Pill for you, not for my ex –“

“That’s the way my relationship with my ex-girlfriend started. It made things . . . weighted, suggested a degree of seriousness.”

“You asked me to get tested. I did something responsible for myself and for you. And that made you run for the hills? You couldn’t just tell me you were scared, give me some kind of explanation?”

My chicken quesadilla arrived. I was suddenly starving. Jeff continued to talk. Now he was annoyed with me, articulating his case with fifty-cent words. He didn’t touch his food or his margarita.

“I couldn’t possibly know that’s what changed it for me.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s a cop out, Jeff. People know why they do things. Take responsibility. You’re an adult, for chrissake.”

“Look, if you want to stay angry at me, fine. But you’re here, aren’t you?”

“It really doesn’t matter, you know? I mean, it just doesn’t matter. Look at you! You haven’t even touched your quesadilla!”

“I wish you’d become a dyke or gained eighty pounds, Kath, but you haven’t. You’re just as cute as ever. Once I realized who you were, I thought, in light of my dad’s passing, I couldn’t miss a chance to see you again.”

He was playing the dead dad card. I couldn’t believe it.

“On Sunday, I go back to South Carolina. I have no friends there. My mom can’t cook. I don’t move back to New York until September. As of Sunday, my life stops for about a month.”

“You realize I’ve been through what you’re dealing with now.”

Jeff was discussing his life as though no one had ever lost a loved one before. No one had felt friendless and alone with one parent. Now I was annoyed and pissy. My mom’s death when I was a kid had taught me many lessons and now a 35-year-old was telling me he had seen the light? That people who love you don’t always stick around and one must, when presented with the possibility of love/happiness, hold on tight.

“Yes, I do. Look, when I move back, we’ll be neighbors. I’d like to see you again.”

Jeff walked me to the corner of my block. Gave me a hug. His shirtback was sweaty. He held my hand for a moment as he turned to walk away. I accidentally dug my middle fingernail into his palm.