I need closure like Republicans need scapegoats. In all likelihood, it’s a manifestation of my overall obsessive-compulsive tendencies (I need to finish things). Or maybe it’s a control thing. Whatever the case, my response to failed relationships is a prime example of this phenomenon.
Here’s a case in point.
I’d been dating this woman for a couple of months. We’ll call her Shortstuff. Our Date Quality Score averaged at least a 7.5 out of 10, and although we hadn’t done the do yet, by the fifth date the sexual tension was as thick as a Georgia stripper’s…accent. I had high hopes that this one might go the distance. I’m talking at least four months here, maybe even five.
One week, we saw each other two days in a row, then didn’t speak for about four days. Then, as luck would have it, I was standing on the subway platform with one of my best female friends when I saw Shortstuff emerge from an arriving train. In a matter of nanoseconds, I went from excited to shocked because I noticed that babygirl wasn’t alone. To my chagrin there was a big, black, 7′ 15″, oak tree muscle bearing dude behind her. Mind you, Shortstuff is like a 5′ 4″ Asian woman, so the juxtaposition of those two bodies was not at all ego-affirming.
With that said, after emitting an audible gasp (some of my manhood may have left my body with it), I managed to smile and say, “Hi.” She hesitated on the stairs, awkwardly greeted me in return, and then got swept up in the steady forward march of Terry Crews‘ understudy. I ain’t like that shit at all.
I let a day pass before reaching out. Not that I was playing games, but I thought that it would be in poor taste to hit her up so soon after seeing her with another guy. I might as well scream, “You’re not banging him, ARE YOU?!” Nah, son. The kid can’t be going out like that. Word to Rob Pattinson.
I hit her on email first. Nothing. Waited another day, then called. Voicemail. I was down to my third and final card: text messaging. See, it’s only after the third time that you’ve been ignored that you know for sure that the party’s done. That’s the Rule of Three. If somebody reaches out to you three times, you’ll get back to them if you really want to do it. I don’t give a fuck if you’re in a coma, you’ll telepathically contact a muphuckin’ psychic or some shit. Feel me?
Finally, she responded. Supposedly, she’d been so busy at work that she’d just been exhausted over the last few days. After washing down the bullshit with pig urine, I told her that it was fine and that she could just hit me when things got less stressful.
If Shortstuff got in touch with me, Rihanna did. And since I haven’t been spotted on a beach somewhere in the Mediterranean eating euphemistic Barbadian birthday cake, you know that didn’t happen. This is when my need for closure kicked in hard.
I knew that she was done with me, but I didn’t know why, and that info was just as crucial to my sanity. Was it because there was a four day, contactless gap between our last awesome date and our meeting on the platform? Was it because when she saw me, she saw me with a girl? Or, horror of horrors, perhaps it was because she’d decided that she’d have a better chance of creating her long-desired branch of the Blasian master race with a black man who looked like he was bred for…breeding? I. HAD. TO. KNOW.
I exercised the nuclear option. (Don’t worry, I can write that ’cause she’s not Japanese.) I sent her one more text message, informing her that I’d really liked getting to know her and hoped that we could keep in touch. Yes, I used the past tense to infer that I knew it was over, hoping to spur a counter-reaction if I’d assumed incorrectly. And yes, I included a smiley emoticon to let her know that the note was written in a wistful mood, tinged with optimism. In short, I pulled out all stops in the final thrust for answers.
She didn’t respond.