Jase Takes On...

Yes, the final D.C. post... I promise!

Saturday evening rolls around, after D. took a nap and I made some phone calls, mainly because I was too agitated to rest or be around him at that time.

Eventually D. and I went to dinner; he took me to a nice, trendy little restaurant called Firefly, which I believe was near (or on the outskirts of) Dupont Circle. It was a cozy little venue, and reminded me of Cleveland's Fahrenheit, although with a brighter decor. I had steak with fritte, which was tasty although the reduction was a tad salty. He had halibut with roasted fingerling potatoes in a morel based emulsion. Of course I started with a cocktail, something featuring pureed melon. Dessert was D.'s coup de grace: a glass of Moet champagne. (I do adore bubbly.) The check came out in a canning jar with holes in the lid -- reminiscent of how children capture the restaurant's namesake. I was pleasantly surprised when D. picked up the tab, as I wasn't expecting to be treated on this possibly-a-date.

Our next destination was a farewell party that included D.'s closest circle of friends. I drank way to much of a vodka drink that tasted like lemonade; it certainly snuck up on me! While there I hit it off with another D., who I'd have been interested in were I not focused on my host; as well as "Jake." Apparently I was the envy of other party-goers for being able converse with Jake, who got his nickname for resembling a certain breakfasts Mountain actor. Like it's my fault that he was an intelligent conversationalist, who apparently enjoyed the same in me!

Our final stop for the evening was a bar called Cobalt, and that is where things got ugly. I ended up in a public confrontation and fight with D. Because I found myself stranded, alone in a gay bar in an unknown city. I didn't spend much time with him the rest of the evening, which is unfortunate, because we'd never been able to dance before.

The evening ended with drunken "I love you's" being exchanged, and what I thought was real emotional bonding after the cathartic release engendered by fighting. Sadly, the next morning proved this a false assumption on my part: D. informed me that he did not love me in a romantic sense, and although he couldn't keep his hands off me, it didn't mean he was ready to start a relationship. He wryly admitted to seeking perfection in himself before he could focus on another person. I never did quite figure out if he didn't want any relationship, or was just avoiding one with me. Not that it matters.

Sunday afternoon we parted at the airport. D. appropriately played what I like to call "slit your wrist" music on the way there; it perfectly suited my wretched mood. I really can't convey the sadness I felt on that drive, listening to melancholy music while the grey sky was punctuated by trees shaking their storm-turned leaves.

The worst part was actually saying goodbye; I don't think he quite wanted to hug me, and it was awkward for a second as I initiated the embrace and told him that I loved him. Then, it was over.

I came home to an even greyer Cleveland, feeling like I'd lost some vital part of myself. I suppose in a way, I had.