So Mr. Cute Singer continued to blow hot and cold, and we ended it with a hurried, awkward kiss to the corners of our mouths in front of quite a few people at the final shindig. Huh. The kiss was the perfect manifestation of our ambivalence towards each other. But, for some reason, I wasn't especially embarrassed. More like amused. I don't think we ever quite accepted each other.
I'm not sure he found me fun enough, or perhaps I didn't flirt with the expected vigour of a college girl in heat. Or maybe I wasn't ambitious enough; maybe he was looking for a real go-getter. Dunno. It's sheer speculation, as I don't think I'll ever get the truth from the horse's mouth. I likely won't be seeing that horse again.
As far as I was concerned, two things were holding me back. First was his creepily slavish devotion to that self-motivational movement mentioned below. Second was the hot and cold behaviour: the private jokes, the teasing, the seeking me out at social gatherings. Then the ignoring me, the eyes scanning the room when I started in on anything like an actual conversation, the walking away without so much as a hug goodbye. WTF? No wonder I held back. No sense making a fool of myself over that kind of treatment. When it was good, the chemistry was very, very good, but I don't think it was unique. I got the impression he held a number of females in his thrall. The idea that it wasn't special for him burns, because that sort of thing doesn't come my way that often, and when it does, I loooooove it.
So there we have it. The end of something that was/not was. Zut. Surely I could do better than that. Couldn't I?
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