An Imaginary Relationship

"If you had to describe my outfit, what words would you use?" I asked my roommate when I got home last night. Decked out in a black newsboy cap, black scarf, fuzz-covered black peacoat (missing a button), with loose grey wool trousers and shoes so beaten up by winter salt that they'll be getting pitched the instant it's warmer, I knew I wasn't looking my best.
"Newsies!" my roommate gleefully replied. "Hobo!!"
"What if I told you that I guy said I look 'great'?"
"Then I would say he wanted to get in your pants at any cost."
"Well, NJ was the one who said it. We ran into each other at the drugstore."
"What?!"

NJ and I have a complicated relationship that can be summed by one succinct phrase: Lead Theresa on. I've written about him before, since it provides such fodder for the kind of angsty why-does-my-lovelife-suck-so-much posts that you all seem to love. Nothing like living vicariously mixed with a little schaudenfreude, eh?

To reiterate, NJ and I have spent over a year running into each other -- and, for the past five months or so, writing one another on Facebook. Back and forth we'll go, occasionally sending half a dozen flirtatious messages in one day, then not emailing for a week. He's particularly adept at never attending anything I invite him to, usually disappearing till said event is over and then emerging to ask how it went. He did manage to drag himself to the free Drambuie night I put on in Oct. or Nov., but that was the last time I'd seen him. Perhaps because the final time we texted I'd said he was a jerk (for not deigning to reply to my email about Burns Night, to which he texted back "allergic to haggis"), we hadn't talked in a month. Then he wrote yesterday to see how my party went, which ticked me off because of the myriads of photos on Facebook. Obviously the party went well; there was no need to email to ask.

So there I am, looking at cards in the drugstore, when I see a guy with great hair. I bend a little backwards to see if his face lives up to the hirsute cuteness, and there's NJ, smiling back at me. We give each other a huge hug, and he asks how my housewarming party went.

"Didn't you see the pictures on Facebook?"
"Yes, just yours," he replied, "You looked hot."
"What can I say, I do trashy well..."

We had more repartee about him needing a hat, and he told me how "great" I looked. Then he grabbed my elbow and said, "I'm going to get my hat. Pick out your card and I'll be right back." More hat banter, and he tells me I'm rocking mine.
"Did you just say I'm 'Baracking' the hat?"
"Um, no."
"Because if you did, that would be kind of awesome."
Hehe.

Off into the snowy evening we went. When he told me the intersection where he lives, I remarked, "My girlfriend used to live right there!"
Teasing tone: "Girlfriend?"
"Friend that's a girl. Yeah, I'm totally a lesbian. Don't you wish…"
He asked in turn where I was headed, and I told him the name of the bar with no other explanation. (I was going on my first CrazyBlindDate.) A hug, a kiss on the cheek, and farewell.

So three compliments in 10 minutes, unnecessary touching, and (I flatter myself) a fun conversation. Why in God's green earth is it so impossible for him to hang out with me?

I rehashed the evening's events with several girlfriends, at last concluding that I should listen to what everyone has been saying for ages: He probably has a girlfriend. Heart in mouth, I texted to ask him. "Better to have it out in the open," my girlfriend counseled.

No response.

And as we all know, "no comment" means "yes."

Well, it was fun while it lasted. Farewell, adieu, auf wiedersehen.