Mr. Forearms got back together with his ex-girlfriend, taking one option off the table for me, so to speak. A pity, that, but I try to console myself by iterating all the very many ways he was oh-so-unsuitable. (Count the poker puns, people!).
So I've fallen back on Inappropriate Crush Number 2. Shall I describe him to you? I thought you'd never ask!
Another young man. (Of course. I'm nothing if not predictable in these matters.) A former Army officer, graduate of (I believe) West Point, and then Yale School of Management. Now a commercial real estate developer. A solid poker player; I much prefer to have him seated to my right, where I can adjust to his manoeuvres.
When I first met him, probably a year ago at a free pub poker game, he was so quiet it was uncanny. He's unbent significantly since then. I wouldn't describe him as chatty while playing now, but he will talk, crack a joke, from time to time. He has a devastating smile when he does get around to it. He wears a cap as anti-tell gear, and leaks very little information of any kind at the table.
What's novel here is that he, too, is not classic 'my type' material. He's not an ectomorph, he's not primarily a nerd or intellectual, he's doesn't wear wire-frame glasses. (Apparently, over time, my requirements are loosening up. This can only be a good thing.) There's no doubt he's smart as hell, but he's not into putting his intelligence on overt display (except in the game). He's a tad shorter than I am ~ like 47% of all men ~ and
wide. I use the term "wide" advisedly. He is not fat. He is not husky. He is not stocky. He is broad and
dense. (He lifts weights. A lot, apparently.) This gives a kind of permanence to his presence that is unnerving. He seems immovable. Patting him on the shoulder is like patting a granite boulder. It's a downright odd sensation.
He is half Irish and half Italian. Blue eyes and not much, if any, hair (I think that's either a shaved head or a buzz cut under the cap.) Mostly he looks Irish, but the nose, in profile, has an Italian swerve in it. The worst thing I know about him so far: he likes to jet ski. (I hate those noisy machines.) The best thing about him, so far: his shuffle; it is so smooth, subtle, and elegant that one naturally wonders what else those hands might do exquisitely well.
It has long been established that there is a girlfriend. He used to be responding to phone messages all the time during games, or stepping outside to return a call. Recently, not so much. We have never learned the girlfriend's name, or what she does for a living.
Here's the thing. At a poker table, all you do is observe people. (And try to influence them, but that's part B.) So, painful as it's been (sheeya), I've observed this guy
a lot. And something has changed lately. We've always been friendly, but email and SMS traffic has spiked up noticeably. We mutter entertaining comments to each other when seated side by side in a game. I don't know how else to put it, except to say that the whole vibe has shifted.
Or I'm delusional. Or both.
You know what, leave me my little fantasies, would ya? I know this is ridiculous. I do. This man is never going to be romantically inclined toward me. He likes me. We'll probably be poker buddies, maybe even real friends eventually. And I will pine, hopefully not indefinitely, like the unattached middle-aged woman with age-inappropriate tendencies that I am.
Labels: poker, social life
