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"Is that all there is?"

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The ride to the airport was made in near silence. Only the familiar Sunday ramblings of NPR made it anywhere near civil. Any attempts at conversation were put to a quick and merciful death. He was ecstatic, dancing inside not so much because he was leaving , but that "it" was over, over at last. The "new agers" yak about closure way too much, but that’s what he had. He would never again worry that he wasn’t paying attention to the signs, that he was too tentative, that he was to blame.

The goodbye at the terminal ranked right up there with some of his least memorable departures, but he would never forget it either. "Thanks for everything," he said. "Have a safe trip," she replied. As he turned to enter the airport, he was actually smiling, laughing at the ironic way it all turned out. Two years of chasing and flirting and late night heart-to-hearts, all ends with a whimper, certainly not a bang (in any interpretation of the word).

It didn’t start out that way. The convention—the sparks—the intelligent conversation—the subtle flirting….all seemed too good to be true. He didn’t make a move that first night oh so long ago, though she chided him more than once for not being aggressive when the opportunity presented itself. He was too nice a guy, the fellow who didn’t know how to close, the one who couldn’t read the signs. She claimed a "quasi-boyfriend," he thought, and I do have a roommate tonight. Too easy to back down and just slip out of the crowd, the safe route, the way nice guys always went, the one he’d practiced on countless nights just like this. I’ll get that one, he promised himself over and over, just like a toddler who’s learned that one new word and wants to try it out ad nauseum.

Long distance was his romantic friend. E-mail and phone calls let him hide, far away, yet use his strength. He was a frustrated novelist, or perhaps a journalist, and the option of writing it down first gave him the courage he needed to think through what he wanted to say. He could play coy or flirtatious or bold or intellectual or dirty. He could rethink those words, look up a better phrase, save nuggets he’d always wanted to use. "I shoulda said that," was his most common utterance. The electronic post gave him power. He didn’t have to be glib on his feet, he could hit the pause button, he could be deliberate.

It worked and how. He told her how smart and how attractive she was. He told her how far she could go. He bolstered her sometime flagging self-confidence; he told her what she wanted and needed to hear. He even helped her break away from the sometimes beau who wasn’t right for her. He was master of the game.

She wasn’t innocent of misleading him, though. She responded to his mild flirtations and elevated the game a notch or two. She spoke frankly of sex with him, heightening his enthusiasm and desire not to let this one slip away (like all the others). She begged him to flatter her, to pump up her esteem. "If only you lived here," she purred again and again. He believed her.

Though she always made last-minute excuses why she couldn’t come to visit him, he invited her repeatedly. The two short business trips through her town were an even greater frustration. He might as well have been her brother, though he was sure her brothers got a more enthusiastic welcome. Doubts lingered heavy.

If she weren’t so Jekyll and Hyde, I’d have moved on a long time ago, he thought. She’s a cold fish in person and a tramp on the phone. She chides me for not being close by and, when I am, acts as if I’m her Catechism teacher. Am I missing something, he wonders.

He wants someone expert to talk him through this, but he couldn’t ask the one person he knew who could pull this off without a second thought…his officemate. This fellow, bronzed and beautiful, graduate of a prestigious Northeast university, couldn’t write a proper sentence if he were spotted the "I am…" and yet (or because of his intellect) he beats them off with a stick. His phone conversations were littered with "like," "ya know," "ummm," and other such inanity as to make him wonder about the intelligence of the listening party. No, he wouldn’t understand---he’s playing the game under a different set of rules or maybe an entirely different game.

Once, the infamous "she" kidded him about not being aggressive enough. That’s it, he thought, gotta go for it. "I’ve got a plane ticket for you to come visit me. What day can you catch a flight?" he asked, running out of oxygen just to get the sentence out. "How about in two weeks?" she replied quickly (and just as breathlessly), catching him off-guard. It was done. They would spend that weekend together and find out if this thing was legitimate. Finally!, he thought and bounded to the ticket office with a definite measure of joy.

Two days before the fateful day, she e-mails him. "Way too much going on here right now. My roommate told me to find a new place in a week and I’ve got too much work to do…I’m even working all weekend. Can we make it another time, promise? " Normally, he was very calm about these things, such as when she had postponed previously planned visits with similar excuses, but this was too much for him. "Fine," he wrote. "I’m tired of you changing your mind. If you’re not interested, tell me and I leave you the hell alone. But tell me…"

It took her a week to respond. He assumed that was it, no mas, but she sent him a wonderful apology, heaping all the blame upon herself for leading him on and being fickle. She just wasn’t ready to make the leap of sleeping with him yet, she wrote. That last line brought out a rare smile for him. Damn, he thought, at least that’s the problem. That’s better than the usual "we’re not compatible" or "I’m not interested" he usually received. "Any small victory" was his motto in these cases.

He wrote her off, though, despite the left-handed complement. The "let’s be friends" bit is fine with him, but the ball’s in her court. She would have to show him she was interested in continuing the relationship or whatever it was. And she did! She called him almost daily, e-mailed him constantly, and returned to her flirtatious ways. He was overwhelmed, surprised and flattered, but he kept the deflector shields up. He wanted to be aloof, he wanted not to care (knowing that’s the best policy for avoiding heartbreak), and he did his best to act that way.

When the chance came to take a Friday business trip to her town, he hesitated. Did he really want to ask her if he could stay over? Was he prepared for the possibility of humiliation or even success? When he asked if he could crash on her couch for the weekend, he did his best to downplay it. "I’ll stay out of your way," he said. She responded by being more and more explicit. "Should I increase my supply of condoms? Perhaps something from the Victoria’s Secret catalog?" Taking a deep breath, he replied "The flirtation’s what got us in trouble in the first place, remember? I can’t play that game anymore, until you decide one way or the other. It hurts too much. You know where I stand. Tag, you’re it."

His frankness didn’t help; in fact, she cranked it up a notch. On the plane, in the meetings, his head was racing. Should I get my hopes up? Will she, won’t she? Does she, doesn’t she? He kept his expectations on a leash, his feelings in check. No heartbreaks this time.

The visit was pretty much a blur. She surrounded him with her friends, all the people he wouldn’t like and who would just get in the way. She told him over drinks how she didn’t have that special feeling for him, though that spark was lacking in her last two boyfriends, too "At least you slept with them and made sure I knew it! You shun me like all the others have shunned me and you expect me to feel good about this comparison? You wonder why my self-confidence is dented? I’m almost good enough?? You compare me favorably to you old lovers and you won’t even toss me a bone? You flirt with me unmercifully and then act as if we’ve never met?" Or did he just think that…?

For the rest of the weekend, he never felt so "in the way" in his life. He was glad when the sun rose, when he could get out of this purgatory. Why was being caught in no man’s land worse than being despised? Why can’t you just accept that some people won’t like you? He eagerly waited at the door for her to pull the car around for the trip back home.

Standing in line to check his bags, he felt the tightness in his chest ease. His appetite returned and a smile replaced his usually somber look. The queen is dead, long live the king. He hummed a couple of his favorite tunes and drew odd looks from the security guards.

Two weeks later, he wrote her one last letter---this one, a nice little "it’s been real" letter. He thanked her for whatever he could think of to thank her for, to include the birthday and Christmas cards, the flirtations and a couple of e-mails he would save for posterity. And he said goodbye.

Much to his surprise, he never heard from her again.

And he was very, very happy.

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Write Joe at: joseph.goss@sap-ag.de