There were three people on last night’s date. Me, Buzz Lightyear, and Mr. Hyde. I shouldn’t have brought Hyde along, but there he was, beside me all night.
I haven’t actually talked to Hyde again since he stopped being Jekyll. Boy, that doctor could woo. Crazy people can. I believe that every anniversary of our first date, from now until forever, the heavens will sound an alarm so the angels can stop what they’re doing and have a moment of silence to honor the greatest first kiss in the history of sex.
So there we were, all three of us, and Lightyear was doing his job – tall, funny, Jewish, perhaps a little uptight for an astronaut, but all systems were go. Except there were no sparks. Electricity is unpredictable in space.
Buzz: What’s your favorite book?
Me: Pride and Prejudice. A Tale of Two Cities.
Buzz: Pride and Prejudice isn’t a good book.
Me: Your favorites are so much better?
Buzz: Anything by Pat Conroy. Now if you had said Gone with the Wind, I’d give it to you.
Me: Because Pride and Prejudice is chick lit and you’re a dude? We wouldn’t have the English novel without Jane Austen, no Dickens at all, and your man Pat would be writing cookbooks.
Buzz: You know, he did!
Me: Yes, I know.
Jekyll had always sparkled. And so he sat beside me at the table, hand on my knee, reminding me what a great beginning should feel like. A great middle too, a great six months, right up until the day I got introduced to Mr. Hyde.
I’ve been ambivalent for the past year about not chasing Hyde down. But I can’t chase crazy. Jekyll was not a solo act. I’d have corkscrewed the earth chasing him, telling him “Don’t be so crazy!” if there were any magic in those words.
Buzz Lightyear really ought to get a second date. He has dismissive, sexist taste in literature, and the space between us was an airless vacuum, but he’s taller than I am, and can kiss.
I have to date my way out of this threesome I’m in.