Dating, Dining and Dashing

I hoped to close this dating column with a feel-good end, a second date. Instead, I have a more upstanding finish — complete rejection.

Darlene* and I got along swimmingly, as you may have gathered from my last installment. We had a marvelous evening at Black Sheep and, though we’re from vastly different worlds, connected fabulously in the ineffable spark of humanity that can only be called the “X-factor.”

Though this is the end of my time here at Middlebury, I couldn’t help but ask her out a second time. A part of me wondered what the point was, considering the temporal limitations of any romantic involvement between us. I’m sure she asked the same. However, I’ve always been liable to get ahead of myself. I reasoned, to hell with future uncertainty, I’ll take one step at a time.

The mechanics were pretty simple. I was reasonably confident that Darlene reciprocated my interest, so I came by at the end of her shift and asked her out again. We set a date for Saturday night at Flatbread.

We texted throughout the week, little about the impending dinner itself, mostly just boy-girl spring lilting. Friday, I saw her in-person and we confirmed. Saturday, I came back early from a weekend jaunt with friends. A close professor invited me to dinner that night, a rare opportunity; I was tempted to try rescheduling with Darlene, but declined. Late afternoon, we reconfirmed.

Early evening, Darlene suddenly began to send cryptic, hesitant texts. Nonetheless, I walked to her house, our agreed rendezvous, to take her to dinner. No one was there. I texted to inquire, no response. Maybe she’d gotten tied up on her way home or some emergency had seized her. I decided I’d wait a bit and see. I’d already committed my evening to this date so had nowhere else to be, and Flatbread doesn’t take reservations.

I sat on a short wall across the street. The heat slipped out with the light. I lit an unfiltered Camel, a murderous gift from an old friend. The waxing crescent hung low in the black locusts. I lit another cigarette, and watched it smoke itself to dust. I called, no answer but the phone rang through to voicemail. It was undeniable: I’d been stood up.

Facing the terrible truth, I sat a while longer letting my confusion and general upset fill the hollow night. I got up and walked home, stiff after two hours on the makeshift bench, as the rain came down around me. Darlene texted me the next day, “very sorry” but without explanation, so there’s still a part of me out there, sitting in the dark.

Well, this is how my adventures in casual dating for this column have ended. In some ways, I guess, this week has wrought every shade of fear we have in casual dating upon me at once: vulnerability, rejection and embarrassment. And yet, I remain undeterred. I’d invite my critics to laugh me all the way to the romantic morgue, but I stand in continued defense of casual dating.

I will not be dissuaded by one bleak evening, but will keep taking risks and keep knocking. Darlene must have had good reason to bail. I can only hope that someday she, metaphorically, might hear me outside and answer.