Same Time Next Year

About a year after September 11th, I went to a promotional party for the New York Press. I was there with a fellow professor and his wife chatting, when a vaguely familiar guy came up to me. His name was Darren, and we had lived in the same dorm. The moment he introduced himself, I remembered him. I had chatted with him in the courtyard of Third North a few times. We talked a bit and he gave me his card and asked for mine. He was working in PR, and I figured he just wanted information for business reasons. About a month later he called and asked me out. We met downtown and ended up having a date that if we were still college students or if he was even vaguely interesting would have been decent. We ordered burritos at Burritoville and then walked around the park. I attempted to discover something vaguely like a personality, but no. He told me about living in his parents basement in NJ, while I tried to plot my escape. When it seemed like he was getting brave enough to try and kiss me, I decided to claim exhaustion and grab a cab. Now, I’ve had lots of guys say they were going to call. The truth is about 3 million men right now have my phone number, and yet my phone never rings. It’s the best magic trick in the world. So when Darren said he would call as he put me in a cab, I wasn’t particularly surprised when he didn’t. A year later, I got a voicemail from a number I didn’t recognize,” Hi Bunni, it’s Darren. I don’t know if you remember me, but we went on a date last year at this time and I said I would call you and never did…” At this point, I hung up. I didn’t know what the hell he was thinking by doing this and didn’t want to know. If you wait so long to call me back after a date that you are concerned that I don’t remember you, don’t bother.