The Melancholy Korean

Do you remember our first date, Melancholy? I can’t believe how long it took you to finally ask me out. I shouldn’t laugh at a time like this, but I can’t help it. Oh, Melancholy. Two years? That must be some kind of world record. And I don’t think I can recommend your method of pursuing girls. You pride yourself on learning from books, so can I humbly suggest you try some new dating guides? Preferably ones written in the last fifty years? (You know I’m kidding.)

It was Thursday night, really late, I remember, and the telephone would not stop ringing. Ring ring ring. I was in bed reading, and I didn’t want to get up. But you were so persistent, Melancholy. Ring ring ring.

“Felicity?”

“Who is this?”

“I was hoping you might do me the honor of allowing me…”

“Melancholy? Is that you?”

“I was hoping…”

“Why are you calling me so late?”

“I was hoping you might do me the honor…”

“I don’t understand a word you’re saying, Melancholy. Could you speak normally?”

I immediately regretted being so abrupt, since I knew you were sensitive. But I couldn’t say anything, of course. So we just sat on the phone, neither of us saying anything. I thought, if I’ve embarrassed him, at least he’ll hang up soon, and I can get back to bed. Or he’ll try to ask me out again. But, no, Melancholy. Always forging your own path, aren’t you? (I’m laughing again, but I feel like crying, too.  Melancholy. Why are you pushing me away?)

“Felicitydinnersaturday.”

“I didn’t catch any of that.  Could you try to speak a little more slowly?”

Another pause. I felt like we were in a Beckett play. (Is that the right reference?)

“Dinnersaturday?”

“You’re asking me out to dinner on Saturday?”

You didn’t say anything, I remember.  But I was going to let you off the hook.  I was touched you were so nervous.

“I would love to Melancholy, but I’m afraid I already have plans.”

“SorrytobotheryouFelicitygoodnight.”

“Melancholy. Wait. But if you’re free during the day, maybe lunch?”

“I’llpickyouupnoon.”

“That would be fine, Melancholy. Good night.”

I couldn’t figure out why you were so nervous. You were never nervous around me before. For the first two months after we met, you didn’t even talk to me. Do you realize that, Melancholy? You were so arrogant and superior and you always ignored me and only ever wanted to speak to Ken. You hardly even looked at me, Melancholy. God, you were such a jerk.

Saturday, a little before noon. Do you remember any of this, Melancholy? I’m waiting for you at Mother’s house in Connecticut because I had a photo shoot the next day in New Canaan. A wedding of a friend. You didn’t want to come to her house, I could tell, when I told you I had to change our plans.  But it could have worked out so well. I told her all about you while I was there. I told her how smart you were, how much of a gentleman you were, that you were nothing at all like Ken. She seemed not to hate you, which was a good sign, because I wasn’t sure if she was going to approve of someone who used to be Ken’s best friend. I’ll admit I didn’t mention the Korean thing, either.

What a disaster.  Why were you so late, Melancholy? Forty-five mintues! You didn’t call to let me know what was happening. Did it ever cross your mind what I might be going through?

And then when you arrived! Why were you so awkward, Melancholy? You came to the door, and I introduced you to Mother, and then you went crazy, Melancholy. You went crazy.

“Melancholy, I want to introduce you to my mother, Barbara.”

“Barbara. That means barbarian.”

“Excuse me?”

“The Greeks called anyone who didn’t know Greek a barbarian. That’s what the foreigners sounded like to them. Bar bar bar.”

Oh God, Melancholy. What a stupid thing to say. Why didn’t you say hello and nice to meet to you, like every other guy who’s ever come to the house? You know what Mother can be like. No, that’s not fair. You didn’t. But you learned fast, didn’t you?

“How that’s again?”

You weren’t supposed to answer, Melancholy. You weren’t supposed to answer.

“It’s what foreigners sounded like to them.”

“Barbara. It was my grandmother’s name.”

“Bar bar bar. Non Greeks. Hence, Bar-bar-a. Barbarian.”

“You are an educated young man, aren’t you?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“To think that I could pass for a foreigner.”

“He didn’t mean that, Mother.”

“I’ll have to tell my friends at DAR about this.”

“What’s that?”

“A club for foreign women, apparently. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it, Melancholy. I would have been sure your mother…”

“We’ll see you later, Mother.”

What were you thinking, Melancholy? Why that stupid story? I turned my head as we were going to the car, and Mother gave me that look, that raised eyebrow, who does this guy think he is, look and then shut the door of the house. You totally humiliated me in front of her, Melancholy. But you had no idea.

It’s bewildering, Melancholy, how one second you are the world’s biggest jerk, but the next moment, you can be so thoughtful. I don’t think I will ever forget the lunch you treated me to. 

“You didn’t know, did you, Melancholy?”

“I didn’t know.”

“You’re not just saying that? I know you’re Ken’s best friend from college. I know you have European ideas about relationships.”

“Felicity, there’s a reason I’m Ken’s only friend from Yale. He’s twice the pompous ass I could ever hope to be. What do you want to drink?”

“Just water, Melancholy. It’s a little early in the afternoon for…”

“Sapphire and tonic,” you told the waiter. “Make it a double.”

I was surprised you chose to drink alone — this was our first date, I remember thinking to myself, and guys usually try to make a better impression on me (this was before I learned how little you were like any of the guys I’d ever dated) — but my surprise, Melancholy, was nothing compared to the shock I felt when I heard what you said next:

“Ken isn’t properly called a human being. He’s nothing but a piece of shit. A stinking piece of shit.” The waiter turned his head back to our table. But you didn’t notice. “Don’t get me wrong, Felicity. Arrogance can be justified. Especially arrogance backed up with talent. Chekhov once wrote to his brother that ‘to talent everything is forgiven.’ But he’s wrong. To those without integrity, the gods will never grant forgiveness. They’re at the very bottom, Felicity, right next to Ugolino chewing on Ruggieri’s brains.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Forget it. What I mean is this: the definition of a little shit is a man without integrity. One word, Felicity, and I’ll cut Ken so fast he’ll think he’s a gram of coke in the men’s room of the Stock Exchange.”

I didn’t know whether to be touched or horrified, Melancholy. I knew you weren’t thinking of my feelings when you spoke. You had a frightening look of intensity on your face — I had no doubt you were serious about Ken (also about the cocaine) — but we hardly knew each other, Melancholy. We weren’t even friends. I couldn’t understand how you could “cut” one of your closest friends, just because he cheated on his girlfriend, whom you didn’t know well.

What confused me most, though, was why you didn’t look at me. Here you were, my knight in shining armor, coming to my defense, and you couldn’t be bothered to look at me. You made your speech — and it was very touching, Melancholy, don’t get me wrong — but you made your speech while staring at the sea. 

I didn’t understand. Wasn’t I attractive enough for you?

Melancholy, here are a few rules for dating you should write in that little black notebook you’re forever scribbling in, ones even those dating guides from the Thirties would recommend, the ones you like to collect. I know you secretly study those books, even if you pretend you don’t, because I know you’re not nearly as ironic or distanced or uncaring as you pretend to be. I know you care, Melancholy. I know that you care about being a gentleman and a good date and doing things the proper way, not for any selfish or pretentious reasons — you just want to learn how to make sure the girl feels protected and secure and well cared for. I know also you care for me, and that it’s hard for you to admit that you love me, like I love you, and that you’re afraid of those feelings and that’s why you hurt me. Because you care and you’re afraid.

Actually, I have only rule for you. Oh, Melancholy—have you ever wondered how silly this all is? When I think about how much I love you… It’s not a contest, Melancholy. Just because you hurt me first, and you did, you hurt me a lot, when you ran away and didn’t call or let me know what happened. Five days, Melancholy! You disappeared for five days!  Did you ever think about what I might be going through? You didn’t have to talk to me, if you were mad at me, you could’ve just let Harry know you were ok. Melancholy, I thought you were run over by a car, or murdered, or kidnapped, or — I don’t know — that maybe, that maybe you had done what you promised me you would never do, what I made you promise when I agreed to move in.

What did you prove, Melancholy? Just because you hurt me first, what did that prove? That you win? What did you win, Melancholy? 

Here’s the rule: When a girl tells you she’s had a nice time after a date, and she tells you she hopes she can see you again soon, call her the next day, Melancholy. Call her, if not the next day, then the next week. It’s not a good idea to ignore her for three months, and then suddenly, one day, out of the blue, when she’s gotten over feeling hurt and wondering what she did wrong, to ask her to dinner.

Did you expect me to say yes, Melancholy?