He wanted to be a man, a real man: the real kind of macho type. This mentality was beaten into him from a young age in the Middle East and now as a first generation immigrant it was hard to shake off. As I sat there looking at his perfectly chiseled face and stubbles, I started consider if he was just the product of different kind of child abuse: exposure to anti-feminist rhetoric that was going to have a damaging affect for him while dating in London.
He made me laugh from a place at the bottom of my stomach, next to the place where happiness was made, but it was definitely not happiness itself. He was a gentle soul if you excavated deep beneath the façade he presented. He wore well fitting suits and an emerald pinkie ring. He oozed opulence in his words, walk and persona. However, one required industrial sized-diggers to get deep enough to reach for the element that he always held back in his words and empty gestures. How could I ever expect commitment from a man that was non-committal to his words?
‘If you want to know then ask.’
‘Maybe next week..’
‘Maybe we should go here’
‘That’s a possibility ‘
‘I guess I could make this for you’
Every time I suggested to him that he should consider dating an archeologist who enjoyed the digging, he made wild and romantic gestures to make me reconsider. Flowers, chocolates and spa treatments didn’t change the fact that he was who he was at the core. I was just far too fabulous for all this digging.