From the moment he walked in, I felt like he'd been sitting in my living room forever.
I met the Brazilian in line for a film screening while visiting Manhattan from San Francisco.
I was convinced I'd found my ideal man: intellectual, witty, artistic, and .
We spent a passionate week together, and when I left town, I thought I was leaving behind a new long-distance boyfriend—one who, it turned out, didn't like to call or e-mail..
I thought our fling was the start of a relationship; he thought it was a fling, period. I would fall for a brilliant guy with an irresistible smile who never quite fell for me but who possessed all the qualities I liked in a man: a sense of humor, certified smarts, smoldering looks.
At the same time, it made me incredibly anxious: I loved hearing Peter's offbeat observations about music and architecture, watching him rewire the lighting in my apartment, listen- ing to his boyish laugh—but where was that manic streak of irresponsibility I craved? I didn't have to try to pin down an artistic, wandering soul to persuade him to love me, or clamor for his attention.
Without that, the romance seemed to lose a certain thrill.
He didn't come up with crazy ideas, asking me, as other men had, to take off for Argentina, ride the roller coaster in Santa Cruz, or swallow vision-inducing drugs with a shaman in the Amazon. "No," I mumbled, embarrassed and worried that he was going to flee. "Just because I'm not an asshole doesn't mean I'm boring," he said"You need to figure out the difference."Now that was interesting.
He was predictable—showing up when he said he would, bringing flowers, picking me up at the airport. He left, pissed off, and I ruminated all the next day. When I considered it, most of the charismatic men I'd dated were actually jerks or bad boys, hardly relationship material.
He'd raised a considerate daughter who shared his quirky sense of humor.