My friend Lenia was in town for the weekend. We caught up over sushi and plum wine in Cobble Hill when she mentioned that one of her OkCupid matches wanted to meet up with her that night. As she showed me the text, I noticed his name before anything else – Mitt. She looked at me with caution.
“I hope that this isn’t your Mitt,” she said.
It couldn’t be! Do you know how big New York City is, as well as the Internet? There are around 30 million people on OkCupid. It couldn’t be Mitt. The odds of that were just too wild. But sure enough, she pulled his profile up. And there he was, in the flesh. Or on the screen.
We laughed so hard that nearby diners looked up from their sake and sashimi to shoot us judgmental looks. We didn’t care, though. This was way too rich. Mitt, the unoriginal asshole, hadn’t changed a bit. Lenia described him to a T. He used some of the same lines that he used with me in his messages and described him as boring and distant. That’s exactly how he was with me at first before we got to know each other. He’s an asshole, yes, but he’s still a super-smart, funny, creative and cool guy.
“I’m not going to date him. Why would I do that? Buttt…we should play a trick on him,” she said, smiling deviously.
We crafted about 17 no-harm, totally friendly plans that all ended up not working. Maybe he could meet us? No, because he’d only want to see her. Maybe I could “just happen” to be at the bar that they meet up at? No, that’d be too awkward. Or I could “run into” her on the street as they leave and chalk it up to happenstance. TOO much of a coincidence. Eventually we gave up, forgetting about Mitt and moving on with our night.
I missed Lenia’s call the next day as I helped my mom with dinner. So sorry! What’s up? I texted. I have infooooo, she responded a few hours later. Uh oh. Five o’s wasn’t a good sign. I had to wait an agonizing 24 hours to find out what she was talking about. Did he find out that we were friends? Did he think I set this up?
On a rainy Sunday evening before she left, we met up for dessert at Junior’s Cheesecake where she filled me in on what went down. She was at a museum when Mitt, who happened to be in the same area, texted her so that they could meet. She panicked and called me, but because he was literally five minutes away, she couldn’t avoid the meeting. They walked to Starbucks. She said that he was very attractive – which I knew, of course – and tall. He was super awkward and self-conscious, though, asking her to show him her other OkCupid matches so he could see his “competition.” Tf? She told me that he basically talked about OkCupid for the entire time they met, including other “desperate” girls he connected with. Including me. I nearly choked on my half-eaten Devil’s Food cheesecake slice.
According to Mitt, I was crazy for thinking that he wasn’t interested in me because he was a bad texter. I was stupid for only coming to New York once that summer – “just for a Beyoncé concert!” he told Lenia incredulously – and not coming over to his place at two in the morning as he wanted. I was wrong for thinking that the date we went on went well because in his eyes, it didn’t. “The vibe wasn’t there,” he told her. But I think what stung the most was the fact that he called me desperate.
Bible – I rarely texted Mitt first. Never called. For the most part, I kept my cool the entire time that we talked. In fact, I was the one who tried to end things. Twice. He was the one who prevented me from doing so because I “couldn’t end the friendship.” He was the one who got mad whenever I’d unfollow him on Instagram or take too long to answer his texts. He’s the one who gave me his number again after we matched for a second time on OkCupid. But I was the crazy, clingy, desperate one.
I admit that I was a little bit bummed after Lenia filled me in on Mitt’s less-than-stellar review. I was bummed because in this day and age, genuine interest can be read as something as mean as desperation, and someone who’s equally as mean will be more than willing to dirty your name around a city that’s not even all that big when you think about it. But c’est la vie, I suppose. I’m glad that I can finally put the nail in the proverbial coffin in terms of Mitt and my feelings for him. It’s over. For good.
When she’s not watching for Blue Ivy sightings or doing some serious Facebook creeping, Khalea, a recent Howard University graduate, moonlights as a magazine intern and a freelancer in New York City. Follow her on Twitter at @letsbeKHAlear, or feel free to Twatch. Whatever works for you.