better the deval you know

All is fair in love and war. I've sharpened my beak and intend to pick the stories of this weekend apart until I'm left with just a few words to digest.

Deva turns out to be less like me than I imagined. He must have had an accident once, during which a doctor stitched him up with excuses. Never before has someone served me more 'sorry about thats' in just 4 weeks of attempted second dates. My phrase would have been 'sorry no can do' from the start. I hate wasting time. Mine and the one of others.

It started out so well. The day after our first dinner I knew it would take no more than a breeze to knock me off my feet.

In the Mexican restaurant a stranger had given us a thumbs up sign from across the window. I can't help but think about Milan Kundera and the Unbearable Lightness of Being when that happens. Don't blame a novel for portraying a poetic reality, but blame yourself for not seeing poetry in everyday life.

A breeze. In Oostende there are strong gusts of wind and we would meet again right there. Finally free falling seemed a solid and inevitable fact. But then I got ill. While I was making fever for nights in a row I promised myself that I would chase the buzz of being rightly in love when I got better. And I did. For the first time in 3 years I'd identified a category 3 guy, so no way I was going to let it flow.

I wonder if he knows what category 3 stands for. It's the only register to recruit from when you plan to stay faithful or want kids. They have the advantages of all categories because they raise your testosteron level permanently - which means they can wear tracksuits, white socks or be averagely hung - and you want to see them all the time because they are funny and intelligent company.

So what went wrong? Did I show up at the wrong time of the year? Am I a waste of genes when you want goodlooking offspring? Nymphomaniac? I-can't-stop-producing-garbage-when-I-speak? Or all of it - who is to say? All I know is that every attempted second date - which weren't all my idea in the first place - ended with a textmessage that contained the infamous words 'sorry about that' for cancelling the planned night out.

Yesterday I pulled out the plug.
Game over - play again.
Words I can digest.