Secret Agent Man

He was a familiar face from the dancing circuit. He told me he’d been thinking about me, and that we should dance. As in, no one else could dance with me the entire night.
The next night we met and danced again. The day after that we had our first date and danced again.
Fifteen dates later (we were counting them), he hadn’t made a move for the bedroom. He was a big Christian. He was a sweet man.
I went to Iowa to get my sister to come live with me. He was supportive of my decision and sweet to her.
But there were red flags: after the build-up to the great birthday dinner he’d promised me, he didn’t show. I thought he was dead. Two girlfriends came over and pointed out that maybe he was alive and just a jerk. Later, he said he’d had a migraine.
“Do you get them often?” I asked.
“Nope, that was the first time,” he said.
When I asked about his place, he was secretive.
I told my hairdresser my concerns. She got his name and went online to
“Susan, he’s not 59, he’s 70.”
“But I celebrated his 59th with him,” I said. “Wow, he’s 70?”
He did have bad feet.
I went on and bought his report. There wasn’t much about him after 2005.
When I told him I knew how old he really was, he first denied it. Then he said it was his least favorite topic.
I broke up with him for two weeks. But then I gave him a pass, because ALL my friends lie about their age, at least on dating websites.
There were other red flags though: he’d come over on Thursday and go home on Monday morning. I didn’t want so much togetherness. I asked him to go home one Sunday, and he had a meltdown.
We negotiated my nights off – Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. I might have felt different if we’d ever go to his place, but we never did.
I asked him if he was homeless, or married, or on the run from the law.
“No,” he said.
Was he in the witness protection program? Was he in a halfway house or on parole?
“No,” he said again.
He stopped paying for dates. We went 50/50 when we went out. I strongly encouraged him to show up with food in his hands when he parked himself at my place for 4 days. I instructed him to bring wine.
I asked him to get a shaving kit and leave it at my place. He never did. I gave him a toothbrush. He rifled through my bathroom drawers, looking for “toothpaste.”
The final weekend he got drunk while watching daytime football and started preaching to me about why he and I were going to heaven and no one else was.
“Just the two of us?” I questioned.
Four nights later, we had a restaurant date, where we actually talked instead of going dancing. I caught him in a lie about his migraines in his teens.
“You told me the migraine you had on my birthday was the first one you’d ever had,” I said.
He backpedaled on his story.
“And you won’t tell me where you live,” I said. “You are so secretive.”
“I’ll tell you on December 1st,” he said.
“I’m not falling for that again,” I said.
He was going on a church retreat the next day. He was riding down there with a pastor. I asked him to discuss my issue with his secrecy with his pastor. When he got back, he argued with me about it and said he was doing things on his terms. I hung up on him. He called me back and hung up on me.
A week later I called him about the Bible he had left behind. He accused me of playing games.
“Talk about playing games!” I said. “If you think any woman will date a man who won’t tell her where he lives, then you are one messed-up guy.”
My friend saw him a week later out on a date. He never came for the Bible.
It was a game after all – finding a woman with more than he had until she caught on and cut him loose.
I didn’t know much about him. He knew everything about me.
I do miss the dancing.

Couldda Wouldda Shouldda

It should’ve ended on my birthday.

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