Two weeks ago, I've had my last sip of alcohol. Many sips to be exact. Who am I kidding, I got pretty wasted. That was the night of the party I was bringing the New Guy I'm seeing to and I was so afraid yet so anxious to see the Artist there.
The Artist didn't show up for one reason or another and I decided not to ask any one of my friends why he didn't show.
After a few hours of drinking games, we all piled up in a backseat of my Fabulous Friend's car and took our party to a bar downtown. I sat on the New Guy's lap and you would think the proximity of us being literally on top of each other and my face only a few inches away from him would create the sort of chemistry in the air that you could cut with a knife. No such thing happened. Even worse, it was like sitting on my brother's lap, at least that's what I'm imagining it would be like if I had a brother.
Somewhere sometime at the bar, I was forcing myself to attempt some sort of flirting with the New Guy. "I know he's into me", I kept telling myself. "I know you're very very tipsy", I kept telling myself. Why can't I just have fun for this once and at least pretend in my drunkenness that I like this guy more than I really do.
But then I got sick of it. Or maybe it's the alcohol that made me feel sick, but suddenly, I wanted to be somewhere else. I felt like a stranger at a strange bar with a strange, almost-awkward guy whose levels of communication with a girl do not surpass those of an adolescent tenth-grader. At two o'clock, I was happy to hear the bartender to yell at the crowd to promptly get out. The pleasure is all mine.
I let the New Guy crash on my bed, and in the middle of the night (he was far too drunk to drive), I woke up and tried to move away from him as far as possible because I did not want him to accidentally touch me in his sleep.
They say that a woman knows within the first five minutes of meeting a guy if she would like him more than a friend or not. I generally agree with that notion, except that the New Guy is an exception. When I met him for the first time, I was extremely drawn to his looks but as the time went on, more and more, I began to realize that his personality was as bland as a piece of cardboard. I mean, really, the best nickname I can come up for his is "The New Guy" simply because there are NO stand-out characteristics or personality traits that I could identify him with. He is the most generic of all people.
Sure, he was nice, and seemed genuine, and he tried really hard to keep the conversation going. But it was oh so generic. I felt like an actress on a set of a badly-written soap, where the main actors who are supposed to be into each other, have zero chemistry.
By the third date, I could care less if I appeared interesting to him, or interested IN him, for that matter. I found myself in a persistent state of surprise as to how the attractiveness of his looks dissipated the more he opened his mouth. Every word... it seemed, he had to pick out very carefully in his head before he actually said it. I found myself wanting to finish his own sentences. I found myself more frustrated, than excited, when thinking about a possibility of a fourth date.
There won't be a fourth date, I've decided. And now that I think back to that party two weeks ago, and I think of him, and I think of all the alcohol I've consumed. It's like, the frustration that built up when I was around the New Guy pops into my head every time I even think about drinking.
Yesterday I went out to celebrate the end of classes and a successful final architectural review with a bunch of classmates, and I TRIED to drink a beer. I ended up leaving it unfinished and when the waitress asked me if I wanted anything else to drink, I replied with,
"I'll just have a lemonade, please."