One thing I will never understand is why some women take the words, “I don’t want to date you anymore,” as a challenge to which they respond, “Oh yeah, we’ll see about that.”
Not all women, not most women… in fact, only a very small percent of all the women I’ve ever dated has responded this way. But, when it’s happening, statistics is very cold comfort and the last thing on my mind.
I found out, the hard way, that Quentin, the woman I’ve been dating for the past month, does not take break-ups very well. I really, really liked her and thought she would make make an excellent lezbro, but she only wanted to have a romantic relationship with me. Unfortunately, Quentin was the only person feeling the romance. I was feeling annoyed.
I finally got fed up. Last Friday I asked her to meet at the Path Cafe, where we’d had our first date, so we could have a talk.
“Look Quentin, you know I really like you and all….”
“I really like you, too, Sissy! I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
“No, I don’t think we are on the same page. I’m saying I like-like you, not love-like you.”
Quentin blinked. “What, are you breaking up with me?”
“Not as a friend, I just….”
“You are breaking up with me,” she shouted, loudly enough to make the heads of the cafe’s other patrons swivel in our direction.
“Calm down,” I whispered
“Okay, okay,” she said more softly. “It’s just that I didn’t see this coming. I thought everything was going good.”
“They were, they are, I mean, I want to be friends, but not girlfriends with you.”
Quentin shook her head. “No, that would never work out. I can’t just be friends with you. I like you too much. If I saw you out with another woman, I just don’t know what I would do?”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“Just that. I don’t know. When I met you, Sissy, I said to myself, ‘I am going to do whatever it takes to hold tight to this one.’”
She illustrated how tight by closing her hand into a fist.
“Are you threatening me? Seriously?”
Quentin looked down at her hand, like it was the hand of a stranger, then opened it, palm up, toward me.
“Come on, Sissy, you know me better than that. I don’t have a violent bone in my body.”
“That’s the problem, Quentin. I’ve only known you for about a month, so I don’t really know you. Right now, you’re scaring me.”
She stood up suddenly, and pointed her finger at me. “This is not over, Sissy. I love you, and I’m going to make you love me.”
Quentin stormed out of the cafe, leaving me to brave the humiliation of being the last character on stage following a bad scene.
I apologized to the woman behind the counter as I paid, leaving an extra tip. She smiled sympathetically, “Are you kidding? This is the West Village. Drama central. I could tell you some stories….”
Since the cafe wasn’t all that busy, I ordered a glass of wine, and she did tell me some stories. By the time I left an hour later, I felt a lot better.