The Bloom Is Off the Fig

Days like yesterday remind me of the movie Kissing Jessica Stein. Not because I’m about to give up on men and try playing for the other team, but because of how well I think the film captured that tiny little moment where you suddenly decide you like someone (Jessica warms to Helen suddenly, when Helen uses the word “marinate”) – or in my case, suddenly begin to think maybe, just maybe, you might not. Or at least, that my (admittedly overactive) imagination was dead wrong when it filled in all the blanks on the person.

It’s the Fig on my voicemail, shortly after noon. The Fig does not call. Like most British men, and most men in general, he prefers texts. But he’s missed his flight to Dublin by two minutes (they closed boarding) and is really annoyed.

I call back an hour later – I was having lunch with a friend. He curses repeatedly, and I try to be sympathetic. He tells me I’m one of three people he called. As we said in elementary school, I feel special.

We chat and he insists on “translating” several English phrases for me, something I have repeatedly told him is not necessary (never mind wanted). I tell him I know what they mean, and if I don’t, I’ll ask him. He says he doesn’t trust me to do that. Um, what-the-f?

He only wants to talk about whether the conception of baby Suri involved a turkey baster, and whether George Clooney is, as he puts it, “ambidextrous.” Ugh. He doesn’t believe me that Footballers’ Wives is shown on BBC America because it is an ITV show. He starts talking about how there’s really no jetlag when you fly from the US – a statement I resist touching because it is wrong and stupid on so many levels. Never mind that he’s been to the US exactly once, more than 15 years ago.

He has to go and sort out his boarding pass and I make a joke about drunken texting from the over-the-top birthday party I am attending in the evening – drunken texting being part of a long-running joke, if indeed anything can be called long-running when you’ve known someone for three weeks. He pauses and says, “You do what you like,” and starts some explanation about roaming fees (which cannot possibly be more than a pound for a text message) for why he won’t respond. I absolutely loathe cheapness – I think there’s a certain parsimony of spirit that comes with it. And who likes being told – as essentially he just has – exactly how little your company is worth?

I can feel the ice creeping into my voice. I can't stop it and am not sure I want to. "Have fun," I say. "I'll speak to you when you get back." I can tell he knows I'm irritated but probably isn't sure why.

Stay tuned.