Friends who Kiss

It's less exciting every time.

I went out on a date Saturday night--a Japanese restaurant on Park Street and a walk on the Common. It was good sushi and magical weather, but that night, at 11:18 p.m. post-date, my stomach was already hungry and the feathery snow had turned to chafing cold. I turned down the customary offers of dessert or a movie or a party because I just didn't feel like letting the night go on (and I've learned pretty well that "watch a movie" is code for "cuddle on the couch"). His face dropped when I said I was tired--"But it's only 10:30..."-- I made up some excuse about the last two days being really tiring, but I think he got the message.

I've written several cute and earnest posts about the new men I've encountered since breaking up with Samy. I've left out the gory details, any chances for identification, and a lot of the less significant incidents, but I think I've lost even the hope in finding lessons in all of these happenings. It's just dating--it's just dinners, it's just movies, it's just drunken forays into intimacy, it's just bad lines from the worst movies and people looking for convenient companionship. Just in the last two weeks I've truly been converted to the worst kind of cynicism and resignation, best embodied by the snippet of true life conversation below, giggled through flirtations fueled by a bottle of Yellowtail Merlot:

"What are we doing, LeeAnn?"
"Flirting, because we like each other."
"But we're just friends?"
"Just friends."
"Just friends."
"Yeah, friends who kiss."