The Hungarian

Do you think it makes sense to keep meeting? I don’t feel so. I don’t feel the kind of attraction to go and further and I don’t want to mislead you. How do you feel about this?

And, with that, it was over before it had even begun.

The Hungarian and I had been emailing each other for about a month before he suggested that we meet up. Christmas and new year intervened. Conflicting schedules meant it was mid-January before I heard from him again. His plans had changed, he said. He was looking at leaving Switzerland and going home. He could understand if I didn’t want to meet him.

I’m nothing if not pragmatic. This guy could have been the love of my life. In a couple of months we could be married with babies on the way. We could have moved back to Hungary together and be living in a huge house with a view over Budapest.

Or, you know, we could like each other and it might be fun.

I went with the latter philosophy.

And so we met. And he was good looking, and interesting, and funny, and talkative, and intelligent. An all-round decent chap. As he drove me home, I thought about it a little more, wondering whether this was someone I wanted to learn more about, to see again. A chase kiss on the cheek as we said goodbye and, yes, I decided that I did, rather. It was about time I got myself a nice guy. I deserved a nice guy. I deserve a nice guy.

He texted me when he got home and I broached the subject about seeing him again. With an enthusiastic yes reply, that was that. The 14 year old girl was off. She really is a silly cow, sometimes.

We had another date the other weekend. Cocktails and a meal in my favourite bar and restaurant. Chatter, laughter, discussions about religion, the afterlife, Hungarian folk dancing (this is a thing, who knew). We decided against the hiphop concert (is that what they’re called? gig? recital?) – the only thing going on in Lausanne that night – and instead we strolled back to my apartment, made tea, and I endured Die Hard II for a couple of hours. It was relaxed, and comfortable, and sprawled, and…. the perfect time for him to make a move.

No move was made.

Several hours later and it was time for him to go home. As I walked him down to the car, the butterflies started to build. Surely now, now would be the time. We faced each other.

“Have a safe drive home” I said, lamely.

“Thanks” he replied, equally pathetically.

(Seriously, the expectation, that moment of possibility, the waiting for a kiss that may or may not come, has to be one of the most awkward moments in the entire world. I wonder whether there should be some form of signal that those dating each other use in these situations – a safe word, if you like. Say the word “amalgamation” at any point during the evening, and you make it known to the other person that a move wouldn’t be rebuffed. I think I might try it.)

(I may have to try it with someone who knows this is the safe word, however, or it could get very confusing.)

Anyway, there was a pause. A heartbeat. A silence.

And then….

Three quick kisses on the cheek and he was off to his house-share in a town 40 minutes away. Deflated, I walked back home. The 14 year old girl was a little quieter. She was questioning. Of course she was, stupid woman.

I’m not really one for shy men (as evidenced by my experiences with the Tall Traveler) and so really don’t know what to do when confronted with one. Was this being backward at coming forward just shyness? Or did he not like me?

I tried not to think about it. Vague plans had been made for the following weekend. I’d wait and see. That was the sensible option. That was my new grown-up, I’m not running after men option. Wait and see.

And so I waited. And I didn’t see.

In the end, after 3 days of waiting, I gave in and did the running. And I got my answer.

I’m not sure why I’m quite so annoyed about it all. We had a couple of dates. I didn’t love him, I wasn’t even sure I liked him a lot. I liked him enough. Enough to want to see whether anything happened. Not enough to feel this peeved. It occurs to me that this is the first time that I’ve been properly rejected in a while. In most of the other instances, I’ve been the one doing the rejecting. And that, I like. This whole lack of power thing annoys me.

Now there’s a realisation to end a blog post on.

 

 

P.S. In other news, Monopoly is now going out with one of my friends. Which would explain the reason that both of them have been avoiding me for the last two months. I’m also going to Turkey for work. Despite the fact that Monsieur de la Pérouse says it’s a bad idea (and despite the fact I know he’s right) I’m dropping in to see Turkish Boy.

This entry was posted in having a grump, how i'm feeling, love 'n' things, online dating, this is the modern world and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

7 Responses to The Hungarian

  1. Addy says:

    Rats. I share your pain and was hoping for a happier ending!

  2. looby says:

    He just didn’t feel the spark. Sometimes you want to keep it going for a while in case it happens.

    Although actually, thiking about it, in my experience I know whether that’s going to be there in about 9.4 seconds.

  3. I’m glad I found this blog, it’s fab. Sorry to hear about the whole confusing, disappointing date-rejection thing. I relate to the 14-year old girl as (a) I still feel like one sometimes and (b) I have a nearly 14-year old daughter!!!

  4. anonymous says:

    Oh gosh, I had exactly the same experience lately, only in some ways worse because it got physical and then the rejection happened. Being the one on the receiving end of it sucks.

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