I dated a guy named Saul several times a couple years ago. That’s not his real name, but it rhymes. He was nice enough, and we had fun hanging out. He was Italian, liked chipotle, and lived with three fellow engineers. He was also a liar, as he claimed his mother made the best lasagna in the world, and that isn’t possible as the coveted title of ‘best lasagna maker in the world’ goes to our mom.
Anyway, Saul still hadn’t kissed me goodnight after our third date. I didn’t mind that so much as I was concerned he found me repulsive, which would be troubling. I phoned my friend Chris to get a little man perspective, and he told me it was entirely possible Saul was waiting to see if I was interested, and I should give him a sign. He suggested I confront Saul and ask him why he hadn’t yet kissed me goodnight. I am a coward and that seemed like an awful idea. However, after I accused myself of being a chicken and a pansy baby, I finally sent Saul a text message.
His response: “Well, it was really cold outside.”
He followed that up with: “I’ll kiss you goodnight on our fourth date.”
Thank you, Saul. That made things really awkward. Although to be fair, I probably started the whole awkwardness with my message, but still … I wasn’t even sure I wanted to kiss him anymore, because I felt really weird about it now.
Two days later – Tuesday morning. Saul and I had plans to watch a movie that night at his apartment. I was downstairs grabbing breakfast before running to work when I received a message from him at 7am. It read:
“No kissing tonight. I woke up this morning with a cold sore.”
There is no recovering from a statement like that.