The Story of K, Part I

I finally deleted all of his voice mails off of my phone tonight. Each and every one of them. The very first prank message which actually wasn't that funny in retrospect, the handful where he tried to sound casual and cool but I knew he was just calling say to say "hi" and feared doing so might tip his hand, and even the one he left during a work trip to St. Louis where he said he'd "love to hear" from me.

That was all before the retardation set in.

It all started innocently enough. Just under three months ago, K spotted me on an online dating site to remain nameless. He sent a concise and somewhat witty message in which he noted how the brevity of my profile intrigued him. And he wanted to learn more. With two months in the online dating scene under my proverbial belt, I'd grown accustomed to men who were either far too illiterate or just lacked the general wherewithall to send me a legitimate email, opting instead for the innocuous and rather lame "wink" option. K's message was an aberration. No typos. No apparent confusion when it came to the appropriate use of "your" vs. "you're." A sufficient infusion of wit. No references to any of my physical attributes, no offers to meet for coffee in 15 minutes if I was free, no use of the letter "U" in lieu of spelling out the full, three-letter word...

In other words, I was smitten.

Plus, he was fucking hot.

And thus began the game. The game that (in hindsight, of course) was sooooooo totally transparent, entirely predictable and painfully by-the-book...as Games Played By Boys Who Think They're Men are concerned.

Problem was, I hadn't read the book.

I responded to K with a customary witty retort. And with that simple, initial exchange, the two of us embarked upon a series of at least 25 back-and-forths in less than a week, each more interesting, informative and amusing than the last. By the time he finally got around to asking me out for an official date, I was a goner. I'd been waiting for days. So what if he generalized about the "only two types of women that exist in this world"? He was smart, funny, quick with a comeback, well-written, tall, educated, gainfully employed, and from what I could tell from the completely-gratuitous-now-but-seemed-awesome-at-the-time 10+ photos posted his profile, terribly good-looking. What more could a girl ask for?

On our first date, K came to me. He lived an hour north but didn't hesitate to make the trip down for coffee on a Saturday afternoon. I was already comfortably seated at Starbucks pretending to read the paper when I caught a glimpse of all 6'5" him getting out of his car and heading toward the door. I stood up as he approached. We hugged. As we pulled apart, his hand lingered on my waist for what felt like a lifetime. Later, in one of our more legendary email exchanges, we'd acknowledge that it might have been a mere moment, but it felt like forever.

Not soon after we sat down with our beverages did K make his first of many trips to the men's room. He was gone for a long time. Then he came back. And then left again. The next time he returned, he admitted that he was pretty sure he'd picked up food poisoning at a festival the night before. We debated what to do next given his deteriorating state. Should he even attempt to make the hour drive home? There's a 7-11 across the street...we could get Pepto? Would it be totally inappropriate to offer my couch or bed so he could sleep it off? He didn't seem to like any of the options presented. So instead, he fed the meter.

And we ended up laying beside one another in a secluded part of campus, beneath the shade of a giant oak tree, talking for hours. About everything. Staring into each other's eyes. Throwing blades of grass into one another's hair. Pretending now and again to be sorta semi-sleeping but really using the closed-eye maneuver to steal glimpses when we thought the other wasn't looking. Admitting to having a son (him) and to still being married (me). And all the while, K taking occasional breaks to slip behind the oldest building on campus. To barf.

You know, standard first date material.

Smitten indeed.