It was our fourth date and things were going swimmingly. Dinner on the first date, hiking on the second, hutong biking on the third... Our fourth date involved a lot of vodka. As he nuzzled my neck in a drunken haze, he whispered "God, I love you. I really do." Having consumed significantly less than my love struck partner, I didn't respond with any tipsy confessions of my own. I was also sober enough to recognize his outburst as having far more to do with the potent, clear liquid in his martini glass than true feelings. I mean, c'mon, it was our fourth date! I figure, if he meant it, well, that's a little scary so soon, but I can deal with it. If he didn't, well, people have said stranger things under the influence and if that was all it was, then, well, frankly it would be a relief.
When I spoke to him the next day, he had driven himself into a frenzy over what he had said. "I don't love you! Really, I don't! Oh my god, how could I have said that? I'm not the type who says that! I don't love you! I didn't say it! Oh god!" For all my shhhhhhing and reassurances that I wasn't taking it too seriously nor was I expecting a diamond ring on our next date, he could not be calmed. "I can't deal with this. It's moving too fast!" he exclaimed emphatically. And then he just stopped calling. The man drove himself into a crazed tizzy while all I could do was sit on the sidelines, blinking in confusion.
A friend later commented spot on: "He mind-fucked himself."