New York, New York's a wonderful town...so they say. Actually they would be right. It's like nowhere else. Brash, exciting, cultured, sophisticated, raw, vibrant, dynamic, dangerous, funny, irreverent, cosmopolitan, blasé...the adjectives are endless. It is a single woman's dream town with the best shopping, amazing nightlife, fabulous restaurants and some of the world's most eligible men.

How come I meet the tossers?

 

There's no shortage of dateable men in New York. That is a fact. There are times when they seem so thick on the ground that you wonder if they have all been rounded up from every other part of the world and shipped out there in the vain hopes that there might be a spare woman sad enough for them somewhere in the Big Apple. But, I warn you, girls, take a bite out of these gentlemen at your peril.

I suppose this month's column is by way of a cautionary tale. If you go down in Manhattan today, beware of a big surprise...you'll hardly believe your eyes....The Single Girls' Picnic...

 

I met Gip at a launch for a new country club that the magazine was featuring on its lifestyle pages. His name should have warned me off straight away. Gip, or George Irvin Peewinkle IV, was what they call here a WASP. Well, I got stung, girls. In England that is what wasps do, too. But they cause you a lot less embarrassment. Gip was a good looking bloke, all preppy style and perfectly groomed hair, impossibly white teeth and year round tan. His people were in steel, so he said.

It was one of those cocktail thingies where you juggle a plate of eats, some cheap champagne and have to make mindnumbing small talk with boring people who forget your name and keep asking it over and over again and make stupid remarks like' "I find your accent so adorable!' as if you were a two year old child or a performing chimp. After a while you grab any port in a storm to bail you out.

I grabbed Gip. He seemed winsome enough. He was certainly keen. Said all the right things. Promised to take me on his yacht one of these days. So, I'm easily impressed? That a crime? Later we went for supper and he saw me home. He manoeuvred himself inside. It had been a while and I had been lonely. Not to mention it was getting pretty tedious listening to Steve ramble on about his rampant and seemingly nonstop sex life with Monica. So I allowed Gip to get up close and personal. Or that was the idea.

"Cassie, honey? Would you mind terribly if I asked you to do something for me?" We were down to our personals and while he might not have been the world's best kisser, he was showing plenty of enthusiasm so I had given him the benefit of the green light.

"Sure, Gip. What is it?"

"Would you wear leather boots and whip my naked buttocks with a belt? I find it helps me to sustain an erection..."

Oh man...He might not have got his wish but I was close to introducing the pointy toe of my stilettos to his sorry arse - but he would have probably enjoyed it too much. His feet hardly touched the ground as I flung him out.

So much for private education.

 

The next week, undaunted by that shambles, I set out again to brave the perils of dating. This time it was Jerome Eisner. He's an arts critic for the New York Times. He was in the office for some meeting or other and we bumped into each other at the water fountain which appears to be the best pick up joint in an office, according to popular belief. Some blokes apparently hang around all day just lurking until some unsuspecting lovely come by so they can con her into a date. Anyway, Jerome, who was ever so cool and cerebral, with this refined effete voice and cynical manner, asked me if I liked opera. I said only if it's served with polenta. He thought that very funny. So he asked me to the Met with him to see La Boheme. I like a bit of opera in the right place and I certainly wanted to get to a performance there - especially if I didn't have to buy a ticket myself. It was going to be a dressy occasion and gave me a chance to get dolled up so I was delighted to accept.

So off we went. Cocktails in the Opera bar with stacks of other Jerome clones and their partners. The usual pretentious claptrap passing for conversation (that's what I always call anything I don't understand, to be honest). Then came the performance which was great, I must say. Jerome thought it highly disappointing and pathetically middle class. The usual dumbing down of art for the ignorant masses, he said. I just shrugged and said "Well, I liked the frocks." He thought I was being funny. I wasn't. They were gorgeous.

Afterwards, we went to a restaurant for supper with a couple of his friends. It was a Latvian restaurant. Latvia? I didn't even know where the fuck Latvia was and made them all laugh when I said "Is that in South America?" They thought I was being very witty. I wasn't. I was just being ignorant.

So there we were eating potato soup and dumplings and hunks of boiled beef with cabbage and they were all having orgasms over the 'authentic peasant cuisine'. I just played with the greasy slop and dreamed of a Balti down in Soho back home. The dinner conversation was all avant garde and intense - and it lost me when they said hello. You know the kind of situation?

Jerome asked me if he could come in when he dropped me home. I was getting wiser these days. I smiled sweetly and said I was a little tired. Something about having to be out in the fields picking the potatoes early the next day. He thought I was so amusing. I wasn't. I was being extremely sarcastic but my humour was obviously too avant garde for him. He asked me to dinner at his apartment the next night. I imagined sauerkraut and pork ribs. Then I remembered he was Jewish so that was unlikely. I accepted more because I didn't quite know how not to than because I particularly wanted another night of pseudo intellectual chatter. He said we would be an intimate party. I relented.

The next night, I rang at the doorbell of his apartment and was ushered into to a large and comfortable, if rather old-fashioned home. It surprised me as Jerome seemed the type who would have lived in some minimalist vision, all sterile white and Pollock inspired prints. Chintzy armchairs with crotcheted antimacassars didn't quite seem his style.

Then I got it.

For 'intimate party' read Jerome, me - and his Mum.

Out bustled Mrs. Eisner from the kitchen in a haze of steam and, I must admit, heavenly smells. I haven't eaten any home-cooked food since Esme made me a farewell apple pie and we got pissed and were very rude. But that's another story.

 So I was pleasantly looking forward to a good feed.

"So you're Cassie, are you? Are you Jewish?"

"Er, no...church of England...I think."

"Church of England? What is that? Jerome, you bring a goy home and expect me to make her my strudel? So, Miss Cassidy....you like babies?"

The strudel was a pull but my rational brain won out. The intimate party got even more intimate when I hit the street screaming. I felt like I had just escaped from some Grimm's fairytale nightmare. Hansel and the Goy meet the nasty witch who plies them with strudel....

 

Okay, so they weren't all as bad as those two. Some were just normally bad. You know? Grossly hairy back, incredibly small dick, bad breath, a penchant for having his arse licked, drank too much, didn't drink at all, vegan, anti-smoking, dandruff, the guy with the very loud sneeze, he who thinks farting in a confined space is clever, premature ejaculator...the usual list of no hopers. See what I mean about all the tossers ending up here?

Or am I just a tosspot-magnet? 

 

I met Steve for lunch one day and regaled him with my dating nightmare stories. He laughed a lot. Then told me about how he and Monica had had sex for four hours non stop the night before - they've been swotting up on Tantra. But he said his balls were sore today. I said I was glad and I hoped she was walking with a limp.

"You want me to ask around the guys and see if anyone's interested?' he asked whilst stuffing his face with pasta.

I glared at him. "Thanks, Steve. Make me sound like a charity case, why don't you? And what guarantees any of your mates aren't equally as disgusting?

He thought about that. "Most of them are pretty dire. I mean, if a guy hasn't got a woman by my age, he's got to be a bit of a jerk."

"That is my point! I have met so many desirable men since I got here but every single one of them is either married or gay! What hope is there for me? Is it too much to ask for a reasonably fanciable fella with no disgusting personal habits, a normal healthy sex drive and a mother who has the decency to live in another state or have passed away..."

"That is a pretty nasty thing to say-"

"Well, I'm feeling pretty nasty. You know just how horny I am? It's been months-!"

"Can't have been. You slept with the premature ejaculator and ass-licking fetish man-"

"-don't be semantic. I didn't enjoy them. I meant it's been months since anyone actually turned me on-"

Steve pursed his lips in thought. "Maybe Curry's still up for it-?" It was such a guy thing to say.

"Steve! That is a terrible thing to say. You make it sound like all I'm interested in is getting laid! Lachlan and I have broken up. I will not use him for sex! That's not what I want!"

"Well, what else do you want then? You don't want love and commitment-"

I rolled my eyes. "Of course I want love. Everyone wants love-"

"Yeah, well, all you've talked about today is getting boned. I'd oblige but I've promised Monica to be faithful. Did I tell you we're back together? She's dumped the guy from the gym. Oh and I proposed-"

I think it was only then that it hit me. Like being knocked over by a ten ton truck. I was in love with Steve.

 

 

Well, I'm not sure if love is the right word. How can you love a guy who drives you raving mad half the time? Who spends hours bemoaning the extent to which he is besotted with another woman? Who is so bloody hopeless that he cannot see that his ambivalence about Monica proves that he is not ready for marriage? If he were, he would have married Monica years ago. He loves her. He is infatuated with her. She adores him. She wants to own him body and soul.  But they cannot live together.

And that is rather a basic requirement for marriage, I would imagine.

How can I love a man who wears cowboy jammies and has limpid blue green eyes that just look appealingly at you like a great big puppy while he runs his big fingers through his thick brown hair and throws his hands around as he talks at the speed of light? Who is late for everything and tells you when he finally meets you after you have been standing in the pouring rain for half an hour that you look awful instead of pretending that you look fine and always insists he knows more about wine that you do? Who criticizes your cooking but never actually offer to do any himself?

A man who is big and hunky and handsome and clever and intense and has a big dick that he knows how to use and wears dog tags that you just know are not his - he was never in the army, the fake? Who rages about women and his sorry lot and then just goes all sweet and caring if he thinks you're feeling low? He made me a hot water bottle when I had period pains. And he is a great photographer. He has such empathy with his subjects. And I don't just mean fruit. Although he is a bit of a lemon at times.

Steve.

I just want him so much.

Even if I know he would be hard work and that it would probably be a nightmare of a relationship at times. But I just want him so much. She doesn't understand him like I do. God, that sounds so pathetic.

Except it's true!

I could be so good for him. I wouldn't tie him down. We could live separately. I have my career. I'm not interested in getting married or having babies. Although imagine how cute his babies would look? All in their little cowboy pyjamas? Spitting out carrots?

I keep having these crazy day dreams. 

But it's too late. He is going to get married to her. I'll lose him even before I ever get a chance to find out if we could have been good for each other.

Someone needs to make him see sense before it's too late.

Then I got an idea.

Maybe that someone could be me?

 

*

 

"I'm not quite sure you've got the hang of this marriage thing, Stevie, but, you know, I think you should get married. Quickly. Make the grand gesture. The whole works. It might be the making of you..." It occurred to me that if I pushed him he would find himself out of his depth pretty quickly. If I said anything against Monica, he would just get defensive. You have to use basic psychology on men. Basic is enough. They only have male brains after all.

It was a really quite difficult time for me. Lachlan and Jessie Dallton had just hooked up and any fool could see that something very big was happening to them. I was happy for Lachlan, of course I was, but the memories of where we had once been were still so vivid. I know it was my choice for us to break up but it wasn't because I didn't love him. I had loved him. But he made me feel smothered. He wanted too much from me, more than I could give. I guess we just couldn't live together.

Much like Monica and Steve really.

No, nothing like Monica and Steve! Lachlan and I were rational adults!

And it still hurts like hell to see him smile that way at another woman who is not me.

I swallowed that down and turned back to Steve. There's nothing like loneliness for focusing your aim. And I had Steve sharply in my sights.

I have to say I was aided nobly by an unexpected source - Monica herself. As she is a control freak, she just took over everything and left Steve on the sidelines while he and her mother arranged some big Catholic wedding. Steve doesn't even believe in God. He hates churches. They make him feel nervous. He was going to love this experience.

Then she wanted everything just so. Expensive dress, top restaurant for the reception etc., The poor bloke was just shelling out and no one even asked his opinion. So he would come down the pub and whine instead.

"Paul....get me a beer....tell me something...why would gay men be pushing for the right to marry...? Sounds to me like not being able to is the best argument for trying it with one of your own sex that I've ever heard of...imagine a world where your partner couldn't say...'Hey honey...I think we should get married...''

Paul rumbled me from day one. But despite the fact he is no fan of Steve's and told me I was tapped to want a wanker like him, he played his part like a trouper, with Jeff snorting into his beer as we set the poor bloke up between us.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, mate...but, weren't you the dickhead who got down on one knee and asked her? You getting cold feet...? Paul raised his eyebrows and Steve groaned.

"I just wanted to get married. To make a declaration of our commitment. Not get myself into debt for the next fucking century! Have you seen these prices? This is crazy! I don't even know any of these people on the list!" He waved the guest list around.

That's where I stepped in. "Steve! Thank God you're here! Do I need an ear! I've had such a bloody pig of a day!  Paul! Get us some drinks in, please! Are there any men in this bloody city without either sexual dysfunctions, relationship phobia, up their own arsitis, weird perversions, a Narcissus complex, wives, a preference for their own sex or marauding mothers?" Steve turned round and gave me a wide grin. My dating mishaps are a constant source of amusement to him. I was rather hoping they just might make him a little jealous.

No chance

So I went for the jugular. "Jesus Christ, what is all that?" I said picking up the wedding paraphernalia. "God...you're not going to have a real church wedding, are you? You just don't seem the type. I'd imagined you'd go for a tropical island and get married in a pair of Bermudas. Or in the middle of a field somewhere communing with nature, wearing nothing but carefully placed fruit. Imagine the pictures!!" I howled with laughter and Steve just looked sheepish. Paul raised his fingers and pointed them like a gun to Steve's head behind his back. Terry Thorne picked up the tail end of the conversation and shook his head laughing. He gave me the thumbs up. Boy, was I on a roll now.

"I'm going to wet myself when I see you all togged up in a morning suit! Oh my God, this is too funny for words! You know, Steve, you've really made my day! I'll bet this isn't your idea, is it? Go, Monica, go! Get a noose round his neck quick!" I chucked his chin playfully as if he was a little boy and teased: "I'll bet this isn't your idea, is it?" 

Steve gulped and loosened the collar of his shirt. He blushed and wriggled from my grasp. "Ha, ha, ha!" he replied in a fake laugh.  "You must be the only woman in the world who doesn't want to get married. Is there something wrong with you? Too many male hormones?" He stopped at that comment and seemed to be giving it some thought. "You really don't have some dream wedding in your head like most girls? Cassie, did I ever tell you that you could be the woman of my dreams? And please ignore the male hormone comment! With breasts like yours you have to be all-girl. And in your case they are natural, as I know. I hate that thing most women do. You know take off their bras and breasts at the same time?"

There was a concerted groan from all the men listening in. My mouth  had fallen open. Only Steve would be stupid enough to come out with a sexist remark like that. Jeff choked on his beer. "Jesus Christ, have you got a death wish, Steve? Even I wouldn't have made a comment like that...but I have to agree they are a fine pair of tits, Cass.  I might be gay but I'm still a man!"

Jessie giggled as she refilled the glasses. "You know, Jeff, your comment proves what I've suspected all along - ALL men, regardless of their particular tastes or orientations love women's boobs!"

She set Jeff off giggling and, of course, that loosened his tongue. "Go on, say it....mother fixation...s'why we men like sucking...that's right, isn't it, Paul?

"Now who's being a bit dirty in front of the ladies?" Paul shot back, blowing his lover a kiss. "Personally Cassie...I've never noticed your tits..." Paul lied. "I'm too well brought up...34D...? Just a wild guess...?" He grinned, his brown eyes dancing with devilment.

"Oi, you lot! What have my tits got to do with anything? And before you            even suggest it, I am not getting them out for you to find out their actual size, boys!  Well, not unless you're all going to get your willies out and we girls can all discover who's really big and who wears padded undies! "The men all rolled their eyes at that, although Paul looked hopeful. "See, you're not so keen on that comment are you?" Then I turned to Steve and put my hands on his shoulders. "Steve, get married and out of my hair - please! And take your face out of my cleavage while you're at it!" 

Best psychology. Agree with his decision on the surface and undermine his confidence beneath. Then a quick change of direction to give Steve some thinking time: "32E actually, Paul. Now go and chew on that, sunshine!"

But he had referred to the time we slept together. I knew he still thought about that. He still fancied me, I was sure. It wouldn't take too much to encourage a little sense of doubt in Steve, the King of Cold Feet. And with Monica scoring own goal after own goal - how could I lose?

She was a class act. Steve would call me every day telling me the latest nightmare. Her mother and aunts had taken over the arrangements. Big Catholic wedding with all the trimmings, guys all dressed up in tuxes and the rest. Millions of guests. Monica kept dropping all these brochures and lists on him and he was just drowning under it all. I hardly had to say anything.

 

 

The days went on with Steve dithering more and more. I knew Monica was leery of me as she blanked me whenever we were in the pub. I can imagine what she was up to behind the scenes as well, trying to make out I was toying with his feelings. One lunchtime Steve even told me when we were having a sandwich together that Monica was being really irrational about me. She had accused me of moving in on other women's guys. Apparently she said I had my eyes on Steve and was always hanging around trying to make an impression on him. She also said I was trying to keep Lachlan on a string. She even said I was moving in on Jeff!

We had a laugh about that and I told him she was crazy. He agreed. And  then added that it was part of her charm. I let that pass. His next comment showed me he was not entirely focused on Monica himself though. "You and Curry? What's with that? Anything still going on? I saw you talking in the bar."

I shrugged. "He's just a mate. Got a new girlfriend. I've moved on. Why?"

"Nothing. Just curious." Curious, my right tit. He was jealous. I know he was. He might not be thinking of me in those terms yet but he doesn't like anyone else around me who he considers a rival for his affections.

Everything was still going to plan.

I knew it was when he asked me to go with him and buy his wedding suit. What guy takes another woman to do that? 

 

Things started to fall apart sometimes around then. One minute we were buying his tux and he was telling me about the nightmarish dreams he was having about his wedding day and Albert Einstein (don't ask me, he's really weird sometimes) and the next he's telling me I'm not even invited to the wedding.

I had told him his dreams suggested he was feeling trapped. He began to question whether with their track record that it would be possible for them not to keep breaking up and if they were married would that mean divorce? He even thanked me for making him see things clearly.

And then he called into work the next day. I was sitting at my desk, happy as Larry, tapping away at my column and then he strolls up and drops the bombshell. I was lying back in my swivel chair, smiling at the sound of his voice, rubbing one smooth recently waxed 'here's hoping' leg against the other and ready to tease and flirt when he just ignored my obvious attractions and said: "Oh by the way, Monica crossed your name off the wedding list. She doesn't think you should come..."

I sat up with a jerk. "What do you mean, Steve, I can't come to the wedding? But, why not?" Then he admitted she had crossed a lot of names off. All the men from the pub and their partners too.

"What? No one's invited?" I couldn't believe it. My mind was just whirling at the arrant cheek of that insufferable woman as he launched into some half-baked story about how Monica thought that the men would raise questions as they looked like him and that she thought weddings weren't really my thing anyway so was just doing me a favour really...is he actually as stupid as he sounds?

All I could do was splutter: "No one from the pub? But why? We're your mates!  This is Monica's idea, isn't it? What did I tell you? So she's even censoring your friends now, is she?" That's when I began to lose it. The truth was slowly dawning on me. He was going to marry Monica. Regardless of what I did or said. So I began, naturally, to get more reckless or probably more desperate. "Wonder what she'll cut next? Your bollocks?  You are one sad bastard, Steve. This what you really want?" 

He, of course, started to be all weedy and trying to win me over. "She just won't have you there, Cassie! I think she's jealous of you. She's a very passionate kind of woman. It's her Latin blood. She can be completely irrational at times. I mean...what's she got to be jealous of you for..? It's not like she knows we slept together that time,

is it? When she takes a dislike to someone, it becomes like a vendetta....Cass...don't be mad...we're still friends, huh? I really need you, Cass. I don't know how I'd keep my head straight without you to talk some sense into it. You're a real, pal, Cass..."

Thanks a bloody lot, pal. I really need to be reminded now about our one night of lust. Yes, you really are as stupid as you act.

"She's Spanish not Mafiosa - stop making excuses for her, Steve! Plus, she's bonkers! Yeah, I'm your pal, big deal...wouldn't like to see how you treated your enemies!" He gave me that dopy, helpless look, shrugging as if it wasn't his fault.           "Oh, go and get married and henpecked and a bloody ball and chain around your neck and leave me alone! I've got things to do, like have a life! "

He winced. Opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it. I saw his shoulders slump and then he turned and simply walked away. I could see other women giving him the eye but for once he was even oblivious to that. Okay, mate. You've made your choice. Have your precious Monica. Miss the best chance you ever had for happiness.

Just don't come running to me when it all goes pear-shaped. 

 

But of course that is exactly what he did.

I had spent the afternoon of the wedding painting the bathroom in my apartment just for something better to do. It felt good to have a physical activity and one where I could slap that emulsion on and imagine slapping that stupid woman's face at the same time. Then the doorbell rang and I climbed down to answer it.

It was Steve, still in his tux, looking wild eyed and desperate. I thought at first he'd been drinking. Then he sat down and told me what had happened, how he had fainted in the middle of the service and the wedding had been abandoned. He sat and told me how he had been having hallucinations recently until he couldn't tell reality from the crazy ideas running round in his head. I wanted to reach out and hold him then and tell him he had done the right thing at last. She wasn't the woman for him. He had left it late but at least he had got out before he made the biggest mistake of his life. All my maternal instincts were on high alert. I wanted to press him to my bosom and make him feel better - and then he did a typical Steve job of blowing everything.

"Cassie, what the fuck am I going to do now? I've completely messed up my life. Monica will never speak to me again. How can I face everyone? The guy who fainted at his own wedding! I just kept thinking about what you said. I just wasn't sure...I mean, you have to be sure to get married. I thought I was sure but then I realised that I was only sure about wanting Monica not to be having sex with some stud at the gym. But is being jealous enough?" he kept running his hands through his hair and rambling on the way he does. I love him like this. "I mean, I don't even fantasise about Monica these days. I keep having these dirty dreams - but they're all about you. What do you think that means? Am I sexually unfulfilled? Do I still want to play the field? Was I happier picking up girls on one night stands like when you and I did it...? Or do you think there's something else going on between us, Cass? You think I need a fuck buddy?"

FUCK BUDDY? Is that what he thinks this is about? I screamed and picked up the nearest weapon. Telephone? You must be joking. I wanted something that would really hurt. I went for the fruit bowl and all its contents.

He ducked and dived as I pelted him with assorted fruit and then chucked the bowl after it, screaming at him all the time.

"You are just too much! If you think for one moment I'm going to let you crawl into my bed on your wedding night to massage your wounded pride, you've got another think coming! Yeah, I actually thought there was something going on between us! I actually thought that perhaps Monica wasn't actually the best choice for you! I actually thought that maybe you and I had a chance! But I forgot that you were a total dickhead. Monica got a lucky escape, if you ask me. Fuck buddies? FUCK BUDDIES! If Monica doesn't kill you first, I will!"

He stood there staring at me but I could see the wheels turning in his brain. His next comment shocked me. Totally shocked me. He had picked the wrong thing up entirely from my tirade.

"Me and you? You thought this was about me and you? You mean all that shit about helping me with Monica was just you trying to move in? I thought you meant it. I thought you cared about how I felt. I thought you were a friend. Monica was right. She said you were bad news. She said look how you dumped, Curry and fucked about with Grant. Now you think you can ruin my life? I love Monica. I've always loved her. For years....I don't even know what I'm going to do now. And you've been playing games?"

His words tore me apart. He loved her. He would never love me. Worse even than that, he didn't want to know me. He blamed me for everything. I tried to reach a hand out to him but he pushed me roughly away. "I'm going back home. Find Monica...I'm going to try and salvage things. And you-!" He pointed his finger right at me. "Keep out of my life. You got that?"

"Steve? Steve? Don't go! Please-" His rejection stunned me.

The door slamming made me shudder as if he had actually hit me. I ran to the window and watched him storming along the street below, so angry, his shoulders thrown back and a belligerent stance indicating his temper. It wasn't all my fault but I had given him a convenient excuse now. So much easier to lay the blame at my door and not see it all for what it was. I traced his outline on the pane sadly as he slipped away from me. It was all over. Another one bites the dust. I could now officially add Steve to the growing list of eligible men who had either proved wanting or got away from me. Another Teddy Bear at my picnic down in the woods who I had managed to scare off.

I put on a CD. It was a pretty self-indulgent choice. But when I heard the heavenly voices of Il Divo, those beautiful tenors, singing of loving a woman, I closed my eyes and wondered if I would ever find a man who loved me like that.  Once I had had Lachlan and I had let him slip through my fingers. Did I regret that now? Maybe. But he hadn't been right for me. Nor I for him. Even if he had truly loved me - and I had loved him.

The thought suddenly struck me that he was like Monica was to Steve. It wasn't that they weren't people we genuinely loved but we had both proved time and time again that we couldn't live together with them.  I opened a bottle of fine red wine, one Steve had brought me as a gift one time, and sat back drinking it whilst listened to the romantic lyrics of the song 'The man you love'. How come we still imagine that the love of sappy movies and syrupy lyrics still exists even when life proves to us time and time again that it is just a naïve and improbable dream.

 

 

One day. Steve, you will look at me and think those things. I swear it. I'm not giving up on you. Who else would be crazy enough to have you, anyway? You are not being consigned to the Lost Graveyard of Might Have Beens in my life! I will not put you in my column as another one of the losers that I dated briefly and who let me down.

One day. I will be the girl you love. One day. Soon.

 

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