So there we were, sitting at a nice table, in a nice darkened restaurant.  I didn’t mind that it was dark.  The dark was nice.  It set the mood, that romantic mood that I so liked to have when the two of us were out.  It was like we were two characters in a romantic comedy movie where I was the guy, and she was the girl.  A movie where we would go back and forth, day after day, flirting, fighting, slowly realizing that we were made for each other.  Of course we were made for each other.  How could we not be?  It was so obvious that no other two people on the whole of the planet were more right for one another.  I loved the way she spoke, the way she smiled, the way she looked.  And I’m not sure, well, that is to say, I don’t know what she saw in me, but what did it matter?  There we were, the two of us, in this nice darkened restaurant, eating our food, drinking our drinks, being blissfully in love, just like the day before.  And tomorrow we will be blissfully in love.  And next week we will still be blissfully in love.  We would run through fields of flowers, and take road trips together.  We would eat giant slices of pizza together.  We would throw the Frisbee to one another on sandy beaches.  And, as in holding to the tradition of a nice romantic/comedy, all of these things would of course be soundracked to the Stevie Wonder song “I Was Made To Love Her” 

“She’s been my inspiration, showed appreciation, for the love I gave her through the years…” and we’re buying a Christmas Tree.

“Like a sweet magnolia tree my love blossomed tenderly, my life grew sweeter through the years…” and we’re out seeing a movie- a drive in movie.

“I know that my baby loves me, my baby needs me, that’s why we made it through the years.  I was made to love her, worship and adore her, hey, hey, hey…” we’re sitting on the couch watching something on television, eating popcorn and laughing at the crazy antics of the people on America’s Funniest Home Videos.  This would be our future.  This is what makes me happy.  These thoughts, and these moments we spend out eating together in a darkened restaurant.

“How did you like your food?” I ask.                                   

“It was good.  Tastey.  I really liked the potatoes.”

“Good.  You know what we should do?  There’s this place down Louisiana, apparently they make the best, I mean the best fried chicken.  I don’t know how you feel about that, but I want to go.  I mean, imagine tasting the best fried chicken in all of America.”

“Yeah, sure.  Well, I don’t know.”

“Well, I guess, chicken can be kind of gross.”

The waiter walks up with the check.  I take the small leather booklet from him.

“No.” she protests.

“No?” I ask.

“No, I won’t let you pay for the whole thing.  It’s too much.”

“I want to though.  Please, dinner is on me.”

She sighs, and looks at me, but not in a good way.  Not in the way Rosalind Russell looks at Cary Grant in “His Girl Friday”, when they argue, but you know they still love each other.  No, she looked like she wanted to tell me my dog died.  My dog died in a horrible way.  He was hit by a car, no, TWO cars, and then a small truck; and then an old Soviet Space Satellite fell from the sky and squished my dog even more.  Then the ground collapsed out from underneath the two cars, the truck, the Soviet Satellite, and my dog, and all of the rest of them fell into a dark cavernous grave never to be found again.  She looked as if she was going to tell me all of that, and I became instantly concerned.  I don’t even own a dog.

What she said was this: I think that maybe you have the wrong idea about our relationship.

 Twelve words.  My heart started racing.  My face felt flush.  My palms grew sweaty.  She kept talking, but I only caught every other word.  I know I heard these words: Friend, Good, Feel, Not, Same, Don’t, Love, Deceitful, Brother, Crush, and Insidious.  My stomach sank.  The once nice darkened room that I loved (because it was nice, dark, and romantic) seemed to grow brighter so everyone around could see what was happening at our table.  They could see us, me, as if we were on display, acting out this sad sordid end to our faulty relationship.  We had become dinner theater.  That’s when it hit me.  We weren’t that happy romantic/comedy couple.  We weren’t Tom Hanks or Meg Ryan.  I don’t know who we were, but I know who I was.  I was the guy that loses.  I was the loser guy.  I was the guy that watches the girl walk away, with another guy.  A guy who was taller, and more handsome, with better hair.  Someone who wasn’t me.  A rush of clarity came over me.  Of course!  I’m an idiot!  I’m the dumbest damn moron on the face of the planet!  Stupid dumb piece of shit.  Of course, OF COURSE she wasn’t into me.  All those times, all those times she wanted to invite someone else along.  All those times she pulled away when I got close.  How did I not see those things?  How blind was I?  What’s wrong with me?  How could I even think that she, SHE would want me?  Then I heard it.  Stevie Wonder wasn’t singing the song in my movie.  No, my song is being sung by another blind man: Ray Charles.

“No you don’t know the one who dreams of you at night, and longs to kiss your lips, and longs to hold you tight…” I let her pay for her half of the meal.

“Oh I’m just a friend, that’s all I’ve ever been, cause you don’t know me...”  She smiles a sad smile, the saddest smile I’ve ever seen, and she reaches out and places her hand on my hand.  I pull away, slightly embarrassed by my feelings.  My throat threatens to close up on me.  I fight the impulse to run, yell, cry, and beat the nice table in the darkened restaurant.  What an idiot I was.  I am. 

“You give your hand to me and then you say good-bye, I watch you walk away, beside the lucky guy…” We walk out to the parking lot.  The lights of the parking lot gives everything a yellow tint.  Now I’m heartbroken and jaundiced.  I look at my shoes as she says goodbye and climbs into her car.  I’m too embarrassed to look up.

“No, no you’ll never know the one who loves you so, well, you don’t know me…” and I watch her drive off into the night.  My heart finally sinks to my feet.  I feel as if I should mark the moment somehow.  Perhaps I should stop breathing.  I wonder what life will be like after this.  Will I be able to sleep tonight?  And if so, will I have anything to wake up to?

PART II

“Oh man,” She said.  “It’s too early for the DTR.”

She was telling me a story about men and women, mixed messages and undisclosed intentions.  We barely knew each other, she and I, but there she was, telling me this story.  I wasn’t sure what to make of the story, or her for that matter, but I listened, cause she has a great southern accent, and she was easy on the eyes, and I’m a fool for great southern accents and people who are easy on my eyes.  There’s enough ugliness in the world, why not look at something nice every once and awhile?  Mostly I listened because I’m polite like that. 

“The DTR?” I asked hoping it wasn’t something overly obvious.  I hate sounding dumb.

“Determine The Relationship.  DTR.”  She explained.

“Is that a real thing?”

“Yeah.  Determine The Relationship.  It’s a big thing where I’m from.”

“Where are you from again?  It sounds like you’re from an army base.  Who uses acronyms anymore?”

“I’m serious.  Back at school there are places, actual places that are dedicated to the DTR.  When you see a couple sitting on a certain bench, under a certain tree, in this or that particular corner of campus, you know they’re having the DTR.  You almost feel sorry for them.” 

“Back where I’m from we just call it The Talk.”  I say.

“Yes, but you’re from 1979, and let me be the first to welcome you to 2007.  ‘The Talk’ is too narrow.  ‘The Talk’ is what happens when you break up.  DTR can happen at the beginning, in the middle, at the end.  It can happen before the beginning of any sort of relationship even.  You are determining the relationship.  It’s all there.”

“DTR.”

“Yes.”

“Determine The Relationship.”

“Yes.”

“And there are whole areas of campus dedicated to this?”

“Can I finish my story please?  I’m trying to tell you something real… a real something from my life.”

“Does everyone talk like this?  Is this normal?  DTR.”

“Yes.  You’re the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on in the world.”

“Well.  Now I believe you.”

PART III

DTR.  The letters just sat in my head.  DTR.  Determine The Relationship.  Relationships, or trying to start a relationship, or trying to scheme one’s way into a relationship, or trying to get out of a relationship, or being painfully aware of the lack of having a relationship, all of that is funny.  Silly really.  Silly and funny.  Not funny “ha-ha”, but more, “Oh, your grandmother died.” kind of funny.  So funny are they that we not only sweat, and crimp, and primp, and cringe, and worry ourselves to death, but we also find the need to create acronyms, silly acronyms that sound like they might be used on a military battlefield. 

“What’s the DTR soldier?”

“I don’t know sir.”
“You best know, and you best find out quickly soldier.  You think the enemy will wait so long to find out?  Make no mistake son, AFILAW.”

“AFILAW sir?”

“All’s fair in love and war son.  Remember that.”

“Yes sir.  Okay, sir, commencing with operation Relationship Progression.  ‘You know, I like, that is, what I’m trying to say is that I enjoy spending time with you.  And I think, you know, I think that we, that is, you and I, should, you know, spend more time together, and um…’   uh-oh… Uh, sir?”

“Yes son.”

“She’s no longer looking me in the eyes.”

“That’s not a good sign son.  Prepare to terminate the mission.

“ Sir?  I’m getting a LYLAB!  I’M GETTING THE LYLAB!”

“Get out of there son!  Abort the mission!  And may God have mercy on your soul.”

Acronyms like DTR and LYLAB, or LYLAS, and of course AFILAW to help us understand and get through these things we love and hate, these relationships.

First let me say this: Acronyms are not cute.  Sure they make life easier, but I also think they de-humanize things.  AK-47 means nothing to me.  It means cutesy gun, maybe it’s pink, and has bows on it. Automat Kalashnikova 1947 makes me think of World War II and the cold war, and makes me think of bullets ripping through flesh.  AIDS makes me think of faceless sick people (or in some cases, when caught off guard, I think of Presidential Aides, which makes me think of Monica Lewinsky), Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome makes me think of open pustules.  Gross. 

DTR, LYLAB, and AFINLAW make me think of young people who never learned to speak properly (and who by default use other acronyms like BRB, and LOL, and use smiley faces to indicate they are happy).  Determine the Relationship, Love You Like a Brother, and All’s Fair in Love and War make me think of the struggle and hopefulness and heartache that comes with trying to muddle through this world while trying to find someone who is willing to muddle through the world with you.  DTR doesn’t seem to give the proper amount of respect to that.

PART IV

“See, the thing is, I’m really glad that I met you and all, it’s just that, I don’t think I feel the same way about you that you feel about me.  I’m sorry.  I hope we can SBF.”

“What?”

“Still be friends.”

“SBF?”

“Yeah.  I mean, I’m sorry we had to have the DTR here at a Jason’s Deli, but, you know, time was short.”

“DTR?”

“Determine the Relationship.”

“Oh.”

“Are you going to be ok?”

“Um… well, I think I would be more disappointed if I didn’t have to spend so much mental energy to trying to figure out what you’re saying.” 

“Oh well see, everything turns out well in the end.”

“Don’t you mean, ETOWITE?”

“Now that’s just silly.”