Two years ago, I ditched any semblance of cheesy dating apps in favor of meeting the love of my life organically, just like the old days..
On a chilly spring Friday night, I scanned my monochromatic closet in an attempt to select a casually sophisticated look that I could pair with “comfortable walking shoes,” which my studious neighbor advised me to wear to our first playdate.
That's when it hit me. I was hoping he knew this. Was not A real date. I wanted to text him to manage his expectations, but it was already 10pm and it seemed too late.
The next day, we were on our way to brunch at Perch, the rooftop restaurant in downtown Los Angeles, when he told me he worked in finance. I mentioned I was writing a book.
“I don't want to be there,” he stammered.
Completely baffled, I asked him to clarify.
“You're writing a book about love and dating, and we're on a date…”
My cinnamon-colored skin turned red. “I thought we were hanging out together… because I don’t hang out with my neighbors.”
—Me neither, but I thought since you live on the other side of the building and I never see you, it would be okay, she said.
I gritted my teeth and mentally kicked myself for not listening to my intuition. His reasoning was flawed, but my blood sugar was dropping rapidly. Besides, he was in charge.
I had met him two months earlier, on the hellish day of my move that began in Orange County, just as the sun was setting and it was beginning to get dark. The management office was closed. The keys to the garage were in my apartment and I had no way to maneuver behind the armored doors until my neighbor came to the rescue.
In two more unexpected encounters we exchanged superficial pleasantries, but the romantic spark never emerged in my life. However, the lack of fireworks did not stop me, at 37, from daring to give a new potential suitor a chance.
After dating too many fun guys, too many toxic guys, and too many wrong guys, I've surrendered to the hard-earned wisdom of 20 years of pointless romances (and heeded the suggestions of psychologists (now a nagging hunch)) to choose a partner who calms my nervous system rather than someone who sends me into a swirl of butterflies that dissipate.
Since I was basically stuck with my neighbor, I turned my attention to listing his admirable qualities, including our shared love of healthy, well-seasoned cuisine. In between bites of my mushroom omelet at Perch, we bonded over our dysfunctional families, perfectly depicted in our favorite binge-watching show, “The Bear.” Later, when the cheerful waitress asked if we’d like to take my neighbor’s extra plate of food, I declined. After thinking better of it, my face lit up.
“Let’s give this to a homeless person,” he said.
“You stole the words from my mouth.”
His generous heart earned him a gold star on my invisible “potential lovers” list.
Plus, my comfy slippers came in handy as we wandered through every cavernous nook and cranny of the Last Bookstore, zipped up and down Angels Flight, and quenched our afternoon thirst with fresh-squeezed juice at Grand Central Market, where we agreed we felt like foreigners fantasizing about moving abroad someday. He’s Italian, Jewish, and Mexican, but he laments that none of the cultures ingrained in their DNA accept him as such. I’m black, white, Cape Verdean, and indigenous, and I’ve never fit into any of the boxes I fit into.
At first I was reluctant to end the evening with Ethiopian food, but I admired that he listened intently to me enumerate my peculiarly long list of chronic ailments while we stuffed ourselves with food with our bare hands.
“Well, you look healthy,” he said, smiling.
—Thanks, but I don't always feel like it. —I looked at his baby face, which looked younger than his 41 years.
From that candlelit moment on, confusion swirled. Would I be up for a second date? He suggested we go to Solvang, the Huntington Library, or the Los Angeles County Fair, but I turned them all down. I am an avid nature lover who prefers serene botanical gardens or pristine beaches.
Later, my girlfriend, who is a therapist, asked me if I would consider dating him as a “one-off,” an exception to my dating rule.
“Absolutely not.”
Under idyllic circumstances, yes! After all, there was a dream guy at my old OC residence who had warm brown eyes and olive skin. He sported impeccable suits and had a billion-dollar smile that surfaced every time we passed each other during my morning walks as he sped off to work. A glimpse of him was the highlight of my day. He was someone I would break absolutely every prudish rule for.
My neighbor from Los Angeles asked me about the details of the second date. I asked for a day to rearrange my schedule. Within minutes, he asked me, “Are you sure you want to go out with me?”
At that moment, the song “Let It Go” from “Frozen” echoed in my head. I long for someone who is patient, kind, and understanding. Frankly, I didn’t want to run into my neighbor while I was on dates with other women or have him see me while I was on dates.
In the end I settled for the old “let’s be friends.” I also texted him some dating advice: “Ask a girl what her interests are.”
He responded with several irrational paragraphs and a spicy “here's some advice for you… you.” His unfavorable response sealed the coffin of the romance.
The next morning, I turned a corner in the lobby of my building, ready to conquer Costco on a holiday weekend. That’s when I saw an unfamiliar person wearing thick reading glasses and a newsboy cap. He was walking calmly ahead of a heavyset woman who looked more familiar than sexual. Then again, I knew little about my snobby neighbor’s tastes.
“Hello, Fawn.”
“I did not recognize you.”
It was pretty awkward. Running into my neighbor and his friend cemented it all. It's never a good idea to hang out with your neighbor.
The author is a writer and creative producer based in Los Angeles. She is working on a humorous memoir about love and dating. You can find her on Instagram: @escritoenpiedra
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