Last night the Russian lover had a dinner date with an ex-girlfriend, and I went out to a bar alone for dinner and drinks and flirting with strangers. Neither of us had qualms about the other's plans, which is the kind of thing that causes some people to believe our relationship is unhealthy and unstable, and others to suspect that our relationship is unnaturally healthy and stable.
In any event, after he was off I settled myself with a glass of wine at the bar of a nearby restaurant, and waited. I was waiting to see who would approach a young woman sitting alone at a bar on a Tuesday night, and what they would have to say. I pretended to watch a hockey game on TV, trying to look both bored and approachable. But the bar was full of jealous and guarded couples, and I came to my second glass of cabernet having exchanged words with only the bartender.
But then, a thirty-something man approached and delivered the age-old opening salvo: "Is anyone sitting here?"
Game on, I thought.
"No, not at all," I said.
The first volley complete, I hoped for an interesting match.
And indeed, it seemed we might have a sporting good time, so to speak; he was a writer for ESPN, in town to interview a few local athletes.
"I never have trouble picking up men!" he joked. I laughed. That was clever. I wondered if he used that line every time he told a woman what he did for a living.
I told him I didn't know much about American sports; I tended to date Europeans, and so soccer was the only game I paid attention to. He was looked already defeated as he confessed that he was from Michigan.
We talked about the city - where to go and what to do. He said the hotel he was staying in was very nice. I almost told him how I had always wanted an excuse to stay at that particular hotel, which was true, and it would have certainly perked him up again. But no, I wanted to see if he could put just a little effort into something - if he was the kind of man who didn't need to mention his bed to get a woman into it.
Perhaps the days interviewing on the road had become a habit; our conversation digressed into little more than a mechanical exchange of information. It was dull and tedious and ultimately meaningless, like filling out an application for a job you don't even want. I realized that sitting alone with my own thoughts was more enjoyable than talking to this man, but we continued to chat, and I held out faint hope that he would suprise me yet.
The Russians lover's dinner was over, and he was on his way to meet me. I explained to the fellow that a friend of mine was wrapping up his dinner date, and on his way over to give me the dish. When one man doesn't initially display any interesting dimensions, sometimes throwing him up against another man brings out his true colors. Remember, competition is what gave us the peacock's tail.
So when the Russian lover arrived, and sat himself on the other side of me, I turned to him with delight and without any introduction to the man on my right. And waited for the man on my right to reassert himself to my person, or to re-insert himself into conversation, or to give any indication that he was a man who knew how to play the game.
But it turned out, he was just a guy who likes to write about games. Within ten minutes, he was on his Blackberry arranging for an escort. And within twenty minutes, I was going home with the man on my left - a man who would rather score by playing the game.