Just give in already

You and dream man, now, over fried rice and noodles in one of those no-nonsense Southeast Asian joints with the fluorescent lighting and the thousand-item menus. You look around at all the hipster couples with leather jackets and tousled hair, sharing dishes, awkward with chopsticks. You look back at dream man. His name is Owen. He’s funny and tall and Midwestern. He has a career, a dog, an apartment you’ve never seen. He has all the things that have been out of your reach until now.

“Man, are you a great kisser,” he tells you later, as you sit on your stoop.

“So are you,” you say.

“Thanks, I practice on grapefruits,” he says. “But you’re much less tart.”

“You shouldn’t say I’m a tart,” you scold, only half-kidding, because you want to believe you’ve grown, that this is a man you could grow with. He just moves in again, his eyes closed, chin jutting forward.

Closing your eyes, connected to his lips, his hands roaming all over your body, you lose focus on his physical features. The dream man is short. No, the dream man is tall. He lives alone. He lives behind a curtain in a converted loft in Williamsburg. No he lives with six roommates in a two-bedroom on the northern tip of Manhattan, but it’s a really great deal. The dream man doesn’t know if he’s ready to be in a relationship right now, he can’t return calls, he’s confused, he really really likes you and everything, but…

You think the way it starts each time is a surprise. Just like magic. He almost hits me on his bike. He comes up to me at a party. I see him onstage, I see him leaning against the doors where there’s a sign that says: “Don’t lean against the doors.”

If you don’t give in now there’s no way he will call. If you do give in now, he won’t call. There’s no way to win. So why not just give in?