Two years ago I went out with a man named Hunter. We ate tacos and drank margaritas, moved to a second location for a round of drinks, then moved to a third bar to top off the evening. We discussed everything from baseball to politics and spent a good chunk of time trying to outdo each other with bad Mitch Hedberg impersonations. I considered it an excellent sign that he was interested in spending so much time on a first date; after all, it was a weeknight and we had hit up three bars! Totally living on the edge. If a dude really wanted to escape, wouldn't he chow down on his taco and hightail it out of there? Thinking that perhaps I'd been scaring men away by coming on too strongly on a first date, I decided to play it cool with Hunter and not go in for my usual "I know it's only been one date, but I like you so please call me" kiss. Much to my delight and surprise, Hunter initiated said kiss instead, and what a lovely kiss it was! He also said he'd like to see me again and would give me a call early the next week.
Monday: no call.
Tuesday: no call.
Wednesday: no call.
(It was no longer early in the week, but maybe he was really busy...)
Thursday: no call.
Friday: no call.
I gave up hope and cried, nay, sobbed myself to sleep. It wasn't Hunter I was crying over, really. It was men. I was exhausted from too much disappointment and heartbreak and angry for allowing myself to be lead on and get my hopes up so many damn times. My sister came in and comforted me as usual and I felt a little better... but someone who's been in steady relationships since she was 13 can't really understand the way it feels (Note: Sister, if you're reading this, I by no means wish to make light of your own heartbreaks. I know that you, too, have suffered. I'm just emphasising how alone I felt in this particular type of heartbreak. End note).
As with all such heartaches, I got over it.
A month later, I disembarked from the train and walked right by Hunter. I took several steps before realizing I had passed him, then turned around to see if he had noticed me. He was staring right at me. Feeling awkward, I kept walking, then decided to turn around again. He was looking away, but then looked back at me. We both kept looking at each other, then away, until I had walked far enough that he was no longer in my eyesight. That was the last I saw of Hunter. For a while, anyway.
The next year, I was living in a new apartment with new roommates and the three of us often compared date stories. One of my roommates had just gone out with a new guy that she was really digging and was gushing about the great time they'd had. I asked her his name. It was Hunter. That's how small New York really is, ladies and gentlemen: my random roommate and I ended up dating the same guy. My face visibly registered shock so I told my roommate about my own experience with Hunter. Then I went to my room because I finally had a boyfriend and he was waiting for me on my bed. Boo-yah!
But back to Hunter... my roommate told him about the crazy coincidence and he claimed to not remember ever dating someone with my name. That's either bullshit, or an illustration of what a jackass he really is. Sure, we went on one date, but only one year had gone by since then. Is it really that difficult to remember the first name of someone you spent several hours with, laughing and having a good time? Maybe I just take it for granted that I remember the name of every person I've ever met.
My roommate's relationship with Hunter didn't last very long, either. On their second date, he told her he'd like to be friends. Which they were, for a few weeks. He was coming out of the apartment once as I was going in and though he nodded to me and acknowledged my presence, showed no sign of recognition. Their friendship fizzled shortly after that. I think my roommate realized that, like myself, she had enough friends and no room for gigglefests with men who don't want to date us. At any rate, I was more than happy to offer this girl my sloppy seconds. Sucker.