No Duck Dumplings at Ping Pong Dim Sum

Finally, The Epilogue. Catch the whole story with Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6. Thanks for reading!

Dear Ping Pong DIm Sum, please oh please start serving duck dumplings. I will be your very best regular forever and ever. Love, C

It seems that in D.C., the better the sex I have, the less likely I am to see the man again. The worse the sex, the more texts and calls and bad wooing attempts I receive. The inverse correlation is depressing, to say the least.

So The Real T and I fizzled out after our great sex. Sure, we texted a little after. We even went on an “I swear this wasnt about sex….entirely” final date.

We met at Ping Pong Dim Sum on Friday night, the week after all the great sex. I was hesitant and nervous. He had been kind of MIA, and I´m not a dumb woman. I assumed his interest had waned. Truth be told, we were probably at the same place. The thing between us had always been too friendly with too much attraction. It seemed we were both playing the parts to get to the good stuff. It was unbalanced.

But I was still excited. With that kind of sex under our belt, I didn’t particularly care if we developed more emotional intimacy or not. Friends with benefits, or, you know, fuck buddies, would probably have been fine with me. Our sex, his views on sex, the physical connection between us – it was enough to keep me hopeful the sex could live on, if nothing else.

We met at 7:00 by the bar. As we waited for our table, we chatted nervously (or maybe that was just me). It wasn’t as natural as it had been before, when mutual desire had directed us through the alleyways of conversation.

“This week has been exhausting at work. Ive been so busy,” he started.

Groan. He couldn’t be more obvious with the passive aggressive apology at having been absent.

“I even have to work tonight. We have clients in Hawaii… five hours behind…”

His words floated in and out of my head. I comprehended some, missed most.

He had to work tonight?

When you’ve been out with someone multiple times, already had sex and agreed to a Friday night date, well, I, for once, don’t make plans for later. I expect it to end naked.

Though I didn’t begrudge him having to work, and I, still, don’t believe he was making up excuses, I did find it inconsiderate that he hadn’t told me beforehand. He found out that day, but even a late afternoon text to give me a heads up, to stave off the inevitable disappointment and allow me time to compose myself and make other plans, would have been appreciated.

The rest of our evening was fine, really. Fine, I guess. The food was delicious; it was my first time there. I still gave him my best smile and flirty eyes. He still caught my eyes and locked his on them. He still offered me that orthodontic, knowing smile that suggested he wanted more.

It was a show. It was a final performance, designed to make us feel better, like – look how we tried! and pat ourselves on the back. He grabbed the check – didn’t accept my offer to pay. It was all part of the performance – the noble final date that just didn’t lead to more, organically. Planned organic endings. My least favorite.

He ordered coffee after dinner, around 8:30. By 9:00 we were walking towards Gallery Place. He offered me a ride home; I declined. He hugged me goodbye, and on second thought, gave me a quick kiss before heading towards his car.

I walked over to the bus stop, leaned against the building wall behind me and felt the cold sting of tears on my cheeks. I texted Not A Lucky Girl and Roommate E:

He has to work tonight, and I’m crying at 9:00pm on a Friday night waiting for a bus in Chinatown. How pathetic am I?

Their texts echoed the same sentiment:

That was rude and his third strike. Next! Get back to H Street and let’a have drinks! You’ll be over him and onto the next guy before the night’s over!

Of course, by third strike, they meant: he had left me hanging after the night we met and again after we had sex. They were right. I headed to meet Not a Lucky Girl and Shoes at Queen Vic for drinks.

I didn’t get over it that night, though it was a good one – filled with too many of Bartender Shannon´s drinks and laughter. But I was over it that next week.

The next night, while sprawled out on Bach’s couch watching Indiana Jones, I told him the story. He, of course, gave me his best sympathetic, “I told you so” look.

“Right. You were right,” I sighed. “It’s not that I want more from it. It’s that, I need to be done by myself. I need to make the decision to walk away.”

He looked at me quizzically. “But, it sounds like it’s probably already over.”

“But I still have to mentally decide to be done myself.”

“That makes no sense,” he shook his head and went back to the movie.

It didn’t make sense, outwardly. But it did to me.

When I dig someone, I tend to wear my feelings out, until all that’s left is the broken remains of them. This time, I was bummed, but I also felt wronged. I felt like I needed to walk away on my own, regardless of whether I’d ever hear from him or not, as an act of self-solidarity – realizing my own worth, cheesy as it sounds. I needed to reclaim my feelings as mine, instead of ones that can be dictated by those for whom I have them.

So I decided to be done. I heard from him once after that, something friendly. Then he left for Thailand for two weeks, and we haven’t spoken since. And that’s okay. Even though I sorely miss the best sex Ive had in D.C. (best. oral. ever.), I’m grateful to have met him, for our shared experience and, mostly, for our story.

It was a pretty good one, huh?

But now I have to buy a new umbrella. Dammit.