Watch how good I fake it.

I met a beautiful man tonight.

Beautiful in intelligence. Beautiful in eloquence. Beautiful in movie knowledge. Beautiful in spirit and garb. Ugly in unavailability.

He was, quite simply: all that I have learned to live without.

Like most taken men, they don’t realize the golden light they shine upon you which speaks of prose and possibility. They don’t mean to promise you happiness in a smile, or to verify your existence merely by being worthy of their own. Yet they do.

He was poignantly dressed and met each twisting turn of conversation with wit and something to say (as opposed to anything to say). It was such a tonic to meet someone who thinks, learns and then speaks, that I felt myself pulled towards him like a planet towards the sun (or like all women towards chocolate and Ryan Reynolds) (probably in that order).

The attention he gave me was so complete as to suggest we were merely two halves of a whole, that our happy ending was a fait accompli. Such are the perils of dating in the modern world. Men have become so adept at synthesising romance, in the moment, it feels perfectly plausible. It’s not so much that you’re fooling yourself (though, there’s that) or that movies have brainwashed you (though, there’s that), mainly just that they’re THAT DAMN GOOD.

But as the night wore on, alcohol replacing romance with cruel credibility, I began to think perhaps he did know of the web he weaved. That my admiration served a purpose for him and therefore needed to be serviced by him. That our innocent meeting of minds was not so innocent. He had a girlfriend. He was not offering himself in any tangible way, yet nevertheless was taking something from me – claiming the first flush of felicity, borrowing a honeymoon period to compensate for his having expired. I couldn’t help but feel his theft was, if not intentional, not entirely accidental.

His beautiful suit and shoes should have served as my warning shot – an ego dressed in siren song. Yet so starved am I of kindred company, I could hardly turn back at a red flag dressed so sumptuously. But after following his crumbs of cinema and philosophy (my drugs of choice), where did that leave me? Believing initially that we were making something, only to learn we were faking something … not back where I began but somewhere else entirely.

Like the wasteland which lies beyond the porch in Beetlejuice, there was something more terrifying than death (or singledom).

Fast food fantasy.

About the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

58 Responses to “Watch how good I fake it.”

  1. This post hit a nerve. Nice.

  2. Beautifully written. By far, my favorite post of yours to date.

    For reals. Or, as the kid say, for realz.

  3. The first minutes, hours, days…whatever. They are all just fantasy anyway. Mr. Almost-Right doesn’t have to be that good to exude excellence for a short time. Physical attractiveness and charm could almost be a warning flag, the brilliant warning colors that teach us to be wary, that something, like a needy ego, is probably wrong with him. My point is that disappointment is inevitable when the bar starts so high; this is unromantic, I know. Enjoy the banter, despise his callousness, move on free of the fantasy of him and you. There is better out there, maybe not perfect, but better.

  4. I really, really like this. But you shouldn’t ever think we men are unaware of what we’re doing – what this guy was up to can be a completely calculated form of cruelty – especially if he dressed for it.

    • You’re dead on, thanks Elvis de anti. You made me wuccle with ‘especially if he dressed for it’. So true!!

      Death by debonaire.

  5. This is a most excellent piece of writing and captures what I have often felt as a still single, probably always single, intelligent woman with a thirst for brilliant conversation on favorite topics (mine are much the same as yours) laced with smiles and laughter over inside jokes that develop as a new relationship blossoms and grows more intimate. But when it happens, it always turns out to be a bit of an illusion and a bit of a tease.

    This could also be the opening of a novel – one I would read. Very nicely done!

    • Wow. Sincerest sandy thanks, Beach. I’d take a book deal over romance any day. Wucs.

      It sucks, but I’m pleased that my post struck a chord with you. Fist bump of solidarity, sista.

  6. Men with girlfriends ARE sirens. They even have clean bathrooms, if you let things proceed that far regardless… But Wuc, whenever you come across one of those, eh, polished gems… just remember that all this (waving arms around) is the result of some other woman’s hard graft and support. You can’t just skip to the end, baby.. you gotta do the meet cute, think he’s rude and arrogant, yell at him for being selfish, mistake his sister sitting opposite him in a restaurant for another romantic interestic, before you get the signed first edition of your favorite book that you talked to him about one night under the stars and he kneels outside your window with a boom box. Yeah, maybe you’re right about romcoms ruining us. Cool post, you might wanna think about adding a fist bump button on here by the way

    • Thanks muchly, MOFO. You make a good point! Though sometimes I wonder if they’re gems at all, or just shiny pieces of glass which Bowerbirds use to make their decorative nests of denial.

      Meanwhile, I am seriously gonna look into a fist bump button.

      Absolute. genius. idea.

  7. I feel for you Wuccles….And I’m sorry your heart was broken by a man unworthy of your awesome mind and heart….how cruel of him to use you, in the future, use the next man you meet

    • Bless you, Whimsy Woman.

      Per’aps it aint my heart that’s broken, so much as my already fledgling faith in the sentimental shmozzle that is dating.

      But, fuck it! Time infects all wounds, right? (I think that’s how it goes)

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