dyslexic heart (part 1)

It’s the crown jewel of the Romantic Comedy Cliché Hall of Hame but not supposed to occur in real life. Yet, the moment I walked in to my corner bar and first laid eyes on Patty that night, it hit me like a piano dropped from a third floor: love at first sight. I had to meet this gorgeous, Amazon-like creature. Man, I wish I knew then she would become my favorite headache. Or rather, my preferred hangover: intoxicating, fun, and ultimately, desensitizing in the thrill of the moment, but harsh and punishing in the light of day.

I introduced myself and proceeded to have, possibly, the most profound conversation I’ve ever had with a woman I was attracted to, within minutes of meeting her. I was instantly smitten. As we drank, we covered the basic topics—including our significant age difference by over a decade—before deeply ruminating on the mutual lack of that special love in our lives and the particular kind of loneliness that comes with it. Not in a sad way, but full of hope that a blissful state of affection and devotion would eventually find us both.

Corny, I know. But you had to be there.

The magic evening came to an end, and we said our goodbyes. And that, was seemingly that. Or maybe not.

Months later, I bumped into her on the subway. When I caught a glimpse of her face, Patty turned out to be the girl with the cute butt I was checking out from afar. I approached her and we chatted for a bit. She claimed to have lost my phone number, and asked for it again; I then invited her to a birthday party for an acquaintance of hers and good friend of mine, the following evening, and she accepted. At the party we had a great time, and a bit of a follow-up to our original conversation. Right before leaving the night’s festivities, she promises to get together again and we say goodbye with a warm embrace.

On a Saturday afternoon, two weeks later, I give her a call and find that she’s in the neighborhood—at the time, we lived about 10 blocks away from each other—and we meet up at a nearby bar for a drink. There I learn two things that would frame all our subsequent interactions with each other: a) she’s thought about and arrived at the conclusion that we’d have great sex if we were to engage in such activity; and b) she doesn’t feel the illusive spark of a love connection between us. That, was a clear sign of trouble I chose to ignore out of wishful thinking, lust, or both. But, as these things usually do, it would come back to bite me in the ass later on.

Patty also confessed that afternoon, that she was not a lesbian but had recently terminated her first ever relationship with a woman, Alessandra, who had not exactly taken the breakup very well, and had subsequently become a constant source of drama in her life. (Minefield alert! Danger, Will Robinson!) I soldiered on like an idiot. But, despite my hopes of winning her over, I kept my options open and went out and hooked up with other girls.

In the following weeks, Patty and I started seeing more and more of each other—including a close call where I inadvertently made a date with her and another girl, two hours apart on the same night and in the same bar, with neither of them the wiser—and at one point even get to meet her parents who were visiting form Georgia and had come to see her perform in a cabaret act. (I also met Alessandra there that night. Uh-oh.) Eventually, one Friday evening, we meet for drinks and I invite Patty over to my place for some dinner, a movie, and more drinks. She accedes and later decides to spend the night. And yes, we have sex. Ah, it was great. After spending all of Saturday together at my place, she leaves that evening to get ready for work the next day, and I sit silently ecstatic and in disbelief at my dining table for a bout a half hour after she leaves.

Then it starts to get weird.