“It seems like you keep getting with the same guys,” said (let’s call him Mr. Guy). I’ve been seeing Mr. Guy intensely, if not sporadically, in a high-level cat and mouse chase.

Tonight we’d managed to spend some sit-down time at my apartment. I had just read him a story I wrote about my employment as an artist’s muse, a job with many strange emotional manifestations that bled into my real-life romantic relations.

Why did I read it? It just happened, er, it was sitting on my desk. He’s a creative, curious person, too. Maybe I wanted to tell him.  Maybe I was protecting myself. I wanted him to know what I’ve been through, that I am strong, resilient. I’m not foolish, just adventurous. I wanted to share and open myself to him, hoping he would start to do more of that too. But now, I may have shared a bit too much.

I paused and stared carefully at him.

“Why are you saying that in this context?”

I thought, wait, is he referring to himself as one of the same guys I kept stumbling upon, who can’t stay, can’t give, want no strings, with whom I have to get in touch, if I want continuity after the conquest?

He didn’t answer.

“How does that relate to you and me, here, now?” I asked again.

“Because I’m not Mr. Goodbar anymore!” he blurted. “I was…”

What? Damn, I thought. My heart sunk, my brow yielded, trying process what I just heard while feeling so attracted to him and seeing his hands on my legs. Well, where was I when he was…

Mr. Goodbar’s prime was apparently a time circa four years ago when he was a more available, optimistic and devoted loverboy. Now, he is resigned to being a beard-wearing, bike-riding heartbroken soul attempting to carry on a casual romance with me when I give him the go. Yes, I have been giving the go. But I’ve also been more encouraging of expression and the power of words this time around, and trying to respect where both of us are at.

“Wow, you don’t have hope for yourself?” I said.

“I’d like to feel what I felt then, but I don’t know if it can happen now.”

His words made me sad. The reason this is troubling is because of my belief and hope for people. I believe people can overcome, transform and not see every situation as the same one. In this case “the big relationship I failed with a big fat F.”

“Well, I have hope,” I said firmly. “That is one thing I do have.” Mr. Guy stroked my side tenderly as we lay side by side in my bed.

“What are you hoping for?” he said.

“That good things continue come my way.”

I just don’t see any other way to live.

“But it seems like you ignore warning signals because you want something so much.”

I laughed painfully. Again, I knew he was subconsciously referring to his behavior with me. The warning signs being his disappearance act, attitudes and limits. Mr. Ex-Goodbar then held me like a little girl (he is only 7 years older than me) and proceeded to invent a fictional 24-year old-guy named “Billy” who is apparently a better match for me. I felt rejected. Wounded. I like Mr. Guy and he likes me. Why can’t Mr. Guy be Mr. Billy Goodbar?

But that is not within my control. And the confusing thing with Mr. Guy and I is, that once the bedroom door closes, a-heed-the-caution conversation like this gets thrown to the wind and so do the aforementioned limits, leaving me suspecting that Mr. Guy really does want to be Mr. Goodbar again.

Then, he leaves and we kiss goodbye. This will all play out the way it will, I tell myself.

The toughest thing about letting go of expectations when you are involved with someone, is the fantasies and ideas attached to a romantic situation you want but can’t seem to grasp.

But maybe it is just not graspable.