“So what’s the difference between dating and just hanging out?” he asks, midway through our 90-minute phone conversation.
“Heck if I know,” I say, reminding him that the last two relationships I’ve been have started with me asking, “Do you like me or are you just bored and that’s why we’re hanging out so much?” with the response being, “I guess I like you enough to see where this goes” — which, in my (now vast) experience means, “I’m just bored.”
[We decide that “adults” — whoever THEY are — do things such as go out to dinner and see live theatre and then have conversations over dessert about their feelings on the matter and decide whether to move forward in a romantic direction. As it so happens, we’re going out to dinner and seeing Into the Woods and then going out for dessert tomorrow night.]
Later, he says, “you’re a sweet person. And kind. And warm — yes, very warm and pleasant and nice. Very different from my first impression of you — with that metal in your mouth and the tattoos and your strong personality.”
“Yes,” I say. “I am acutely aware that, upon seeing me, people have an impression that’s entirely inaccurate.”
Even later, just before we say good night, he says, “I have a feeling tomorrow night’s going to be fabulous.”
And after we part aural ways and as I eat my pizza and prepare to catch up on my backlog of Gossip Girl episodes, it occurs to me that any man who refers to any part of my life (or the experience contained therein) as “fabulous” without mimicking, teasing, or otherwise copying me is someone who just might be worth dating. Obvs.