Flavor of the Week: Post-Modern Almost-Love

Tim and I started dating when he was managing my all-girl experimental cover band. Our first date was a drinking game in Chelsea galleries—once one of us was “emotionally moved” by a work of art, we had to take a drink. I almost faked it for a painting of a chicken, but then he got really into a photograph of an old telephone and we got a beer and made out. He told me he was going to teach me to surf at Rockaway Beach, and that he’d had a crush on me from afar for years. He also told me that he had just broken up with his girlfriend of 13 years. By suburban standards, she would have been his wife. But this isn’t the suburbs; this is New York.

Tim didn’t know how to date, he knew how to be in 13-year relationships. So he’d disappear for days on end and then spend a week practically sitting on my chest. Sure, that might be painful to some, but I figured I could take it—acting tough and indifferent was no problem for me, I’m a New Yorker. Tough is our thing.

I’d remind him of things like how only boyfriends hold hands and only boyfriends use terms like “love” and “we” and “vacation.” He was not my boyfriend. He was the comedy/performance artist I was buying drinks for. Other, less worldly girls might have seen red flags, but I wasn’t into judgment, or self-preservation. We agreed that honesty and not kindness would be our top priority. We didn’t argue, because that would have been really uncool. The trick was figuring out a way to like him but not care if he liked me, sort of like watching tigers at the zoo. You came all that way to see them, but they don’t give a shit about you—unless they get the chance to eat you. If you don’t like it, don’t date tigers.

Usually, we weren’t even in town at the same time. I went to Los Angeles; Tim went to Melbourne. I taught in Cleveland; he drove to New Jersey to get his papier mché animal suits out of storage. When we were both in New York, though, we had a lot of fun. Before him, I was much more likely to spend a free night watching Law & Order and eating string cheese. Tim took me to secret clubs and house parties. He made me feel fun, smart and interesting; we were fascinated with each other and ourselves. Plus he was tall, which went a really long way with me.

My friend Sara always says, “People don’t come to New York to start solid relationships, they come here to be the best at something—to be exciting.” You want a wife? You want comfort? Go home. You want an international comedy star that might sneak off and do coke while you’re on a date? Well then, you’ve come to the right place! Acting tough and indifferent was no problem for me, I’m a New Yorker. Tough is our thing. I thought I was tough enough for this kind of non-relationship, but it soon became apparent I was not. It required me to like him but not care if he liked me, which was impossible. I tried to be smarter than my feelings, but my feelings were just too dumb and they were getting hurt.

It had been a week since I had heard from Tim when he called me while I was in the middle of brunch with my mother in Harlem. He asked me to come meet him in Brooklyn Heights for an afternoon on the promenade. I was desperate enough to see a spur of the moment 90-minute train ride as “hopeful.”

So I trekked out to Brooklyn, where we actually had a great afternoon. We walked around talking and laughing, watching people getting ice cream and getting married. I started to think that maybe if I just relaxed and let things be easy and happy, that’s just the way they would be. Maybe I didn’t have to be tough. Then when it was just starting to get dark, he casually mentioned that he had fallen in love with an Australian clown who was coming to live upstate for the summer.

Tim had gone too far, and so had I—two boroughs too far to be exact. He generously offered to spend the summer dating both of us, but I passed. We were done. In fact, you don’t get much more done than that. There is a point at which you are conducting an interesting experiment with your social life, and there is a point at which you are a doormat. That point, for me, was right between Harlem, Brooklyn and an Australian clown.