Well, I find myself standing at this point, again, staring at my iPhone with exasperation, wondering why he hasn’t called yet, and wondering if I was so wrong to continue straight at the famous end-of-date cross road.  No left turn, no right turn, no good night kiss?

Maybe I gave away too much too quickly, those little messages – sent for no particular reason, in between meetings, during lunch, at the gym, everywhere – did they make me come across as being too involved, a little desperate, maybe?  But what is desperate about wanting to be loved, especially when you haven’t seen a decent man in ages?  The licentious ones are everywhere, heaven forbid, the childish, condescending type of man who perceives a woman as the modern version of a slave, born to mother him, and fulfill all his needs without question.

I admit that it has been a while since I met anyone whose departure has been worth tossing and turning over.  Is that why I’m sitting here persecuting myself over this man’s inability to like me back?  Ok, so maybe he does fascinate me, yes, that little bit.  And maybe he isn’t that bad, not that elevated on the corporate ladder, but he knows how to bring out the little girl in me.  Yes, he does. He says very little, but speaks volumes. I liked it the other day, when he spontaneously bought that blue dress at the flea market, and made me swear that I would only wear it when I am feeling beautiful. For the first time I didn’t care that something wasn’t an expensive designer piece.  It was the sincerity behind the deed that really spoke to my heart.  I want a man like that, who just flows with me, and begs for no approval, because he knows what he is doing.

Maybe it was the way he would call at twelve midnight, wanting to talk about nothing in particular, nothing life changing, then say it’s okay when I cut the call short because I would have an early meeting the next day.  Was I too busy, too self-absorbed, too unavailable?  Maybe I was too hurried to notice him needing me, in his small, silent ways, trying to find me, but I was too busy needing nothing from him, too busy being independent.

And what happened after the starter arrived, after he mentioned the two daughters that I have never ever heard anything about, until tonight?  Ok, so he has never mentioned them before, so what?  This was only our first real date. How much must a man say before he has said all that he needs to say?  Am I really that allergic to baby and mama drama that I flee at the very first mention of the word baby?  And maybe the flat yeahs and ohs, which followed that little event, are the reason why I am going to bed alone tonight.  It’s not my fault that my ideal man has no entourage of wailing babies behind him.  But then again, what does that have to do with the simple fact that I just adore Bheki, and I love his company, and the way he thinks, and the way he talks with his hands, and the way he just laughs from deep inside?

Can someone please tell me again why I am sitting here, sinking in self-pity while he continues with the rest of the party elsewhere without me?  I just don’t see him sulking over me.  He is too composed, and too self-sustaining for that.  Or maybe I seemed like a self-righteous control freak when I emphasised how critical it is for a man to understand his moral obligation towards his wife and children.  Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned the word wife, or children.  Maybe I came across as being too ripe for the picking, too expectant? Sigh.

Maybe I should have agreed to go over to his place when he asked me. And he did ask with decency, and caution.  What did I have to lose anyway?  I have stayed over so many times before with guys I didn’t really like anyway, how much more disastrous could this time have been, really?  Would he have thought me cheap if I stayed over after our first official date?  I don’t know, but that little sad twinkle in his eyes when I said no, said he wouldn’t have.

I am sick of fabulously rich, and boring, James. He will never leave his wife, nor his other mistress… And I am tired of lonely Saturday nights with bottles of expensive wine, used as an anesthetic to the gawking seriousness of my frustrating single-hood.  Yes I feel like a hopeless misfit, because even those members of the female populace who are obviously much less appealing than yours truly, seem to somehow get it right with some type of a man. And then the wedding traffic starts, invitation after invitation, cordially asking me to share in bidding someone else’s solitude goodbye.

I feel like crying when I see my friends tear-filled and overwhelmed at the altar.  Some of them don’t even love these poor men, for heaven’s sake!  I am willing to marry for love.  Will it ever be me standing there, all angelic with sparkling eyes, possessed by love, ready to devote myself to that one special man till the end of time?  I believe that I have been blessed with reasonably good genes, I will obviously produce very good-looking babies, not to mention my not-so-average IQ.  And I think I am tolerable, my irksome mannerisms are nothing an ordinary soccer-crazy man from Soweto or a mining magnate from Dainfern can’t endure.  Yet, in spite of it all, here I am. It is a bit awkward, not to mention impossible, for me to find rationale or balance in the idea that I am sitting here alone, frantic and almost in tears, waiting for this (very wonderful I might add…) man to validate me with a little phone call.  Sigh.

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