so I did—lots, and with varying degrees of success.
First there was Cleveland Keith, who liked to answer questions nobody’d asked. For example, we’ll be driving in silence—everybody’s minding their own business—and then out of nowhere he’ll go, “Yeah, so work was good today….” or “Right, yep, the drive down to Atlanta wasn’t bad, wasn’t bad at all.” Umm, for one, no one asked you how work was, and for two, no one cares how your trip went, and for three, shut it! Plus, he always called me “cutie” and pronounced my Christian name all wrong. Coming from him it was very grassroots, very Uh-leinah.
Way before I even got Miles, I’d tried to cut Cleveland Keith off—changed my number, moved apartments, and never answered his e-mails with more than two sentences. Probably shouldn’t’ve answered them at all. Genius. Also, he didn’t know what sushi was, which didn’t stop him from buying me restaurant roses on my birthday. Made me feel like an ungrateful tramp who preferred loose change to a ham sandwich, but that didn’t stop me from sending all his calls straight to voice mail. Watching another Whose Wedding Is It Anyway? marathon seemed more promising and surprisingly nonpathetic than another phone conversation about his flag football team. Tired of scrolling through my contacts list, imagining all the calls I didn’t feel like making, I broke down one horny night and pressed send when his name got highlighted.
“I got a dog,” I said with more pep than planned, nudging a sleeping Miles in the butt with my big toe. Not amused. Cleveland Keith would be right over. I figured meeting him outside on the lawn with a drowsy dog would nonverbally suggest two things: (1) I don’t really want you in my house, and (2) this visit will be noncommittal.
Post-sexicles (whatever), I told Cleveland Keith that I wasn’t ready for a relationship. He should find a nice girl, I said. A good girl. Someone who’d appreciate his being ordinary and not resent him for it. Someone who didn’t love Japanese food. But instead of yanking his cuffed jeans back on and storming out in a “whatever, bitch” huff, he spooned the shit out of me, trapping my arms down to my sides and threatening my neck with his lips. Who sleeps like that? The next morning I gave Miles his second bath in as many days, yelling good-bye to Cleveland Keith through the closed bathroom door. After he left, I got a text: “It was good seeing you again, cutie .”
Speaking of texts, Tall Thomas has a problem. Another “contact” I normally try to avoid, instead of calling he sends messages, which wouldn’t be so annoying if they weren’t so annoying. Thom in text:
(10/25 10:36 p.m.): Helena, u out 2nite, there’s sposed 2 b sumthin @ Posh
(10/25 10:50 p.m.): Yea, I’m on U Street with some folks. Karaoke! Come thru
(10/25 11:31 p.m.): How long u gon b owt.
(10/25 11:55 p.m.): I dunno call me.
(10/25 11:56 p.m.): How much is it? Fun? Who’s there?
(10/26 12:45 a.m.): OMG. You don’t know them. Either come or not. Jesus.
(10/26 1:00 a.m.): Okay so Jesus is there, who else?
If it weren’t for unlimited texts, the whole thing would fall apart. I mean, he’s six-foot-forever, lives three blocks away, and is especially prompt. After I told Tall Thomas about Miles during an unnecessarily long Gmail convo, his name started popping up in my “available friends” like a banner ad for hemorrhoid cream that suspiciously shows up above your inbox right after you’ve e-mailed somebody about “up the butt” and “puffy eyes.” Google—God spelled in wingding—had spoken.
We walked the dog around the block together one night—very couple-y and so not my idea. Miles chose ignorance as a means of coping. Never acknowledging Thom’s existence, he kept crashing into his ankles and peeing even closer. The next morning, Thom sent me an e-mail, the body of which consisted solely of a giant pug’s face grooving in front of a psychedelic backdrop of primary colors spinning like a beach ball. This was probably supposed to be funny on drugs. “Are you sure you want to delete this message?” Yes, please.
I was this close to writing Miles into my will when I met a new guy, Cooper, in New York at a Columbia alumni thingy. So he’d been fully vetted. He also had an Elizabethan (or maybe Jacobian?) notch in his chin. Very civilized. An Iraq War vet getting his master’s in international spy stuff. I found the link to