The Last Conversation

So it's the fourth date, and all seems to be going well: the kiss hello, the paying for the movie, the dirty jokes. Afterwards we have a bit of time to spare, and he wants to get coffee at the cafe across the street so he can have a smoke. As it is closed, I suggest using my French press...in my apartment...upstairs...

HIM: "I think I should get going."
Translation: I don't want to go anywhere with you. Least of all to your apartment.
ME: "You always do this."
Translation: Don't you want to kiss me?
HIM: "I think we should just be friends. We don't have enough in common."
Translation: I don't like you. At all. Zip, zero, zilch, nada.
ME: "Wow, I thought this was a date."
Translation: Why the hell did you waste my afternoon? Or, for that matter, the past couple of days spent looking forward to it?
HIM: "It was a date, but..."
Translation: I'll say anything you want to hear...except that I like you.
ME: "So why did you reply to my email saying that you liked me?"
Translation: I'm not going to make this easy for you.
HIM: "I did like you. And I still do. Just not like that."
Translation: I'm a confused, confused person.
ME: "So basically you don't want to rip my clothes off."
Translation: Do you find me physically repulsive?
HIM: "If I did, it wouldn't be with honest intentions."
Translation: Yup. I'd have to be pretty drunk otherwise.
HIM: "But I think you're really great, and I'd like to be friends."
Translation: Obviously I don't think you need to have anything in common with someone to be their friend--just something more than friends.
ME: Right.
Translation: Ass.
HIM: "In fact, I'd love to go out for a drink and go dancing sometime."
Translation: Wouldn't it be great if you threw yourself at me? Because then I could rebuff you.
HIM: "Because I don't have any female friends here in Chicago. Or really any female friends, for that matter."
Translation: I'm incapable of having a platonic relationship.
ME: "All I have is guy friends here in Chicago, except my best friend around the corner."
Translation: I have a zillion friends, but no boyfriend. And you're not helping.
HIM: "Cool. Well, we should hang out sometime."
Translation: I can't wait to get this over with so I can leave.
ME: "I'd feel a bit weird calling you."
Translation: No way in hell am I contacting you ever again.
HIM: "Okay, well, I'll call you."
Translation: No way in hell am I contacting you ever again.

So that, my friends, is it. I'll let you know what happens with the next guy I date--which, given my track record, should be in about a year. Yes, oh yes, the wallowing in despair is in full swing.

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Postscript Mon. 16

He comes into the store this morning, smiling widely:
"Hi, how are you?"
"Oh, good!"
"Great--did you have a fun night on Saturday [because I sure did, at my 30-something friends' dinner party]?"
"You bet! I [cried my eyes out and then] went out with my girlfriends and drank lots of champagne [while bitterly lamenting the fact that you don't like me]."

Wow, wasn't that great? Now I can spend the next few days wondering if he really does want to be friends; or if he forgot I worked today; or (my favorite) he didn't forget but just didn't care that I would be at the store, since I am that insignificant to him. Ooooh, this will be fun.