on wanting to be liked by a (mediocre) man

a stream of consciousness during my date with Sunday Guy (and contemplating why I'm attracted to all the wrong people)

I stood across the kitchen island listening to him talk about his trip to Costa Rica. Half listening, really. I was catching phrases here and there like “vacation cigarette…,” and “ceviche…”

Internally, I was busy having an existential crisis over how I should stand so that I looked skinny. Lean on the counter? Hand on hip, or is that too Kappa-Kappa-Gamma?

Fuck, do my Puma socks look stupid with this outfit?

He pauses and sips his can of Zevia, which happens to be my favorite flavour, root beer. He doesn’t offer me one. But to be fair, the can was open before I arrived, so for all I know it was from this morning. It’s 7:21pm now.

He continues on about the Seinfeld-adjacent kerfuffle he had with the rental car agent in Costa Rica as he hands me an Ikea glass filled with filtered water.

“That’s like, so crazy!” I nod, parroting my go-to phrase for when I’m trying to sound interested/concerned/engaged. In reality, my mind was double tasking in an attempt to decipher a text he’d sent me while I was en route to his condo, saying “I’ll leave the door open, let yourself in.”

Let yourself in? Does that mean we're so nothing that he couldn’t be bothered to take the elevator down 20-something floors to meet me? Or, should this be interpreted as an effortlessly hot gesture that maybe a B-list actor could pull off with a Raya date?

Or was it cinematic? Like on Valentines Day when you come home to a glowing entryway of 50 tea lights set up by your boyfriend as a surprise? Or so I’ve seen boyfriends do that, in films and other people’s Instagram stories.

But this wasn’t my boyfriend. This was my first time meeting Sunday Guy.

I call him Sunday Guy because the first time we planned to meet up (last Sunday), he canceled the day-of. An hour and twenty-three minutes before the date, to be exact. It goes without saying, but yes, the cancellation text came after I’d showered and Dyson’ed three-quarters of my hair. I don’t even want to calculate how many dollars of Color Wow spray I wasted.

The Sunday we’d originally planned to meet was more of a “date” — he’d suggested a local cafe in my artsy neighborhood, so I’ll let you decide if him paying for a $6 iced americano is classified as effort in your eyes.

I mean, it’s more effort than today. Because here we are, a Sunday later (fitting), where I found myself rushing home after meeting a friend to pluck my upper lip and re-apply mascara. I contemplated re-doing my toe polish, but decided I’ll wear socks for the sake of time and bank on the rest of my outfit being cool enough.

As I got dressed (black silk skirt, tank, oversized suede coat, and my Onitsuka Tigers), I figured Sunday Guy may actually appreciate my vibe since he’s kinda cool himself — like Travis Barker in a more athletic font, which I found so god damn hot.

After a couple hours of easy and flirty banter, we end up making out in his room while I peripherally evaluate the highs and lows of his belongings: there’s a comforter instead of a real duvet, yet he has two full-size Diptyque candles perched next to a record player. He listens to the Eagles and James Taylor and… is that Dio?

In the middle he stops to ask if I’m on birth control. Ffs, don’t ruin the mood.

After we finish and while I was still wrapped in his arms, I already start thinking about how I hope he’ll text me tomorrow morning. Ikea glasses, questionable hosting skills, lack of a duvet, and all.

After a while I say I should go. He doesn’t argue.

But, he gives me a soft forehead kiss, says he had fun, and references a joke we’d made earlier in the evening — good signs? Sure. But it was followed by a beige flag: he leaves me at the front door of his suite, letting me trace my steps — solo once again — back down the 20-something floors I came up alone a few hours ago. Harumph.

As I wait for the elevator I turn over my phone to see seven texts, including one from a guy I’m talking to from Hinge (31, engineer, 5’11”, a little nerdy looking).

Engineer Guy from Hinge: I’d love to take you out for sushi on Wednesday, if you’re around after work?

Ugh, I think. Now I have to deal with this? He’s so boring… maybe I’ll ghost him.