(Read first date: #32) Ugh, I’ve really got to stop referring to him this way! If he ever overheard me…

So, I’ve been super excited about Old Guy (Alex) ever since our Monday evening at Nightjar and Bounce. It was brutal being patient and not over-texting afterwards. But sure enough, just 2 days later he invited me to a 10:45am Sunday coffee followed by the new Thor movie. He had discount tickets to the Barbican, a unique art & culture center in central London which I had surprisingly never been to. I didn’t know much about Thor, but I was in. (Later I would find out that neither of us are particularly obsessed with the Marvel universe, but we’re both curious what everyone is watching. And I ended up loving Thor – which I am referring to as a RomCom :).)

In the same text, he also invited me “for what it’s worth” to see him perform in a classical orchestra concert that same evening. My weekend was already beyond packed and stressed, so I couldn’t – Saturday plans at an English Channel, Sunday set aside for tango. I absolutely loved doing tango in Argentina, and it always takes me a few weeks to be brave enough to get back into it. On this last weekend of my current London trip, it was my last chance to go to the meetup & I was committed. Luckily, the movie would end just in time.

Given all this buildup, the date turns out disappointing. The 30 min coffee prior to the movie shrinks to 20 min; first my dress breaks in the wash, then I get lost finding the Barbican. Post movie, I expect there to be more time, but he barely takes me to the entrance of the arts center before having to leave for rehearsal. I am left with so much unsaid, so much expectation, so little ability to express what was on my mind.

In the short period we have to chat, though, I emotionally go full circle. When I first catch glimpse of him as he meets me on the street, I take in a tall, somewhat sloppily dressed, average looking, understated, soft spoken man. I am honestly a bit unimpressed compared to the vibrant memory I had of our Monday night.

But by halfway through the coffee, my attraction to him has all come back. We spend most of the 20 minutes chatting about music. He starts by regaling me of tales of his previous night – 15 friends gathered at a friend’s for a 50th birthday party. He had taken up a guitar to do some singalong karaoke for the guests. One lady who was particularly intoxicated made terrible song requests, sang awfully, mixed up lyrics; he had fun switching between songs in the middle of the same verse just to tease her. He literally describes an exact version of life I find most compelling: a bunch of musicians gathered and celebrating each other, having fun, playing along. To me this feels like home. He talks about a few apps he uses to quickly get music. He tries finding me a place I can randomly play piano in London (to no avail). I talk about my difficulty learning guitar, having my brain trained very clearly to be a piano player with absolute positions for notes as opposed to tricks available to guitarists. He makes fun of the simplicity and accidental manner in which some famous songs arise, giving a specific example of an REM or Rolling Stones song with a simple repetitive ditty. I make a comment about Coldplay’s Yellow being similarly simple and one of few songs I can play on guitar. He tries to teach me a neat trick for playing Yellow without having to switch your fingers. 

I would not have guessed he is hungover, but he eventually admits he is quite struggling & thanks me for my patience. Soon it is time for the movie. As we stand to go to the theater, it finally strikes me that he must be carrying his trumpet in one of 2 bags he was lugging. He lets me see it, but is very protective. I ask if he is nervous. He says he had been, until he glanced at the music last night. I am newly inspired, finding it refreshing to be among a musician professional enough to sight read through a dress rehearsal. On Monday, we had commented we were hard core both trumpeters in high school. In an attempt to impress him, I had told him about the highest note I ever played in concert & lamented not being good enough to sustain it consistently; to my surprise, his reaction had been that I was even better than him back then. Now he is the pro. I think I revere him for it.

I realize that when I’m talking to him, I’m really back in tune with my musician self. I have ideas of songs I want to create, even operas sometimes. It’s refreshing to speak to another composer. I had asked during the coffee if he composes. His response – well, yes, about 30 years ago he put out some albums. I’ll later google him and see he is listed as an ‘award winning’ singer songwriter. I’ll start listening to one or two of his songs, and not want to listen to any more, for fear of getting hooked.

In between chatting, he sometimes sings a few song lyrics to illustrate a point. His voice is solid. I love hearing him sing. At some point, I drop the point that I am currently learning ‘Caro Nome’ from the Verdi opera Rigoletto. I catch a glimpse of mixed curiosity and admiration in his reaction, as his eyes widen briefly but unmistakably.

I wonder, am I fangirling? Or am I discovering a person who can fill a space I’ve always wanted filled but thought was too much to ask for? A little of both? I’m really not sure.

The movie is great. We are whispering and chuckling throughout. I definitely feel physically attracted to him when his tall body is sitting right next to mine. 

After the movie ends, he reclaims his trumpet from the checked closet, shows me to the Barbican main center, and we say goodbye. Awkward as I am, I once again do not make space for anything but polite simultaneous cheek-kiss greeting and half-hug. Hurry through the awkwardness, good good. (Read ahead to Date #36 for the more effective way to get me into a kiss.) I think our Monday hug lingered more than this quick goodbye. I also recognized he is rushed and stressed for a professional gig, as well as hung over.

Overall I am happy, nay elated, to have seen him. But now he’s parting, and I haven’t even gotten a chance to tell him that I’m leaving in 6 days (and coming back when??). Or that I really want to invite him to see an opera with me and a friend in two nights. And to make good on his earlier drinks invitation at his place before I leave.

I cowardly voice none of those thoughts. Just a closed goodbye. 

I enjoy the next hour meandering around the beautiful Barbican. It is goooorgeous. Especially the outside public grounds. I mentally note to come back to see the conservatory. During this meandering, I start to get a little emotional. I feel like Alex didn’t shown as much interest in this second meetup compared to the first. Starting to question if the first meeting was a date after all.

I text a couple of girlfriends with what is happening and ask their advice. I then go about crafting the ‘perfect’ follow-on text: casual chatty, apologizing for ending my trip so soon, and inviting him to two options – splurgy opera on Tuesday or Friday drinks as previously offered. I send this on Monday afternoon.

I hear nothing.

Not until Tuesday evening, as I am getting into my killer opera dress. He replies a polite & long reply, saying he is booked all week. I won’t see him until I come back. 

I’ll be honest. This leaves me partly relieved, but mostly gutted.

My cousin Vytas would now say that I should stop overthinking things. But that’s never stopped me. It seems pretty obvious that if he really wanted to see me again before I left, he’d have made a bit more effort. But then I rationalize, maybe he just doesn’t want to indulge me until I’m stable here. His text does make suggestions, assuming I will come back, about when we can hang again.

I am frustratingly left with little clarity on his feelings. The advice I’ve heard repeatedly from girl friends is, “If you can’t tell whether he’s into you, he isn’t. When a guy likes a girl, it is clear.” I had very nearly added to my text, “And are we dating or friending? Because I think I want the former,” but I had chickened out thinking it might scare him off. Instead, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s half British, so all of this might just be niceties and politeness, nothing meaningful. ARGH. Maybe I should have just sent that photo of me and my friend in our glamorous opera dresses.

I reply to his text, hinting at my exciting summer plans. He doesn’t write anything back.

I finally ask Matt, who originally set us up, what gives with our mutual friend. The only context he could share is that he finds Alex aloof and hard to read, and that he’s a bachelor who never married or had kids.

ARGH.

To be continued …