The Enigmatic J

About six weeks ago I began an email dialogue with a fellow I met on Lava. It was cryptic as hell. First off, this guy never once put in a period within the body of his text. I'm not sure if he types with all of his fingers. If he wants to end a sentence, he puts in about four commas. When he tries to answer statements they're all very loose and open for interpretation. All of them are shrouded in secrecy and absolute vagueness. He'd been hurt before. He'd also had many bad experiences within that dating engine.

During one email conversation I'd written a short message expressing nothing more than not really feeling chatty that day. He wrote back saying he was sorry I was feeling lost. I had been but didn't express it.

How did he know that?

He's not allergic to clichés. He has said things like, "Life is not a dress rehearsal." Clichés are enough to encourage me to close a browser window, never to respond again, but I had to forgive him because he was the person who introduced me to The Delgados and Mark Eitzel. That and he's incredibly introverted, something I'm terribly drawn to.

I continued correspondence with him, even though he knew what I looked like, but I didn't he. He doesn't own a camera. He has one digital photo of himself that he didn't want to share. He knew my first name. I've only known his first initial.

J.

He was an enigma. A puzzle. A mystery.

I'm a freak.

I met him yesterday after purchasing the, sworn-to-God next purchase, British Sea Power album.

I did a circuit around the restaurant. I was thinking he was late, though there were a few single men in the place. I was considering going to another CD shop to buy Son, Ambulance's new disk, Key.

He called my name. I turned around. J. Not what I'd imagined. I'd imagined skinnier, less money, certainly no coutured clothing, dirtier, younger. I don't know why. He is only a year younger than me and yet he looked 8 years older.

He shook my hand. Soft. Warm. Zero physical labour.

He asked what I wanted to drink. Coffee or tea? Well, seeing as there wasn't any beer offered, I opted for mint tea. He liked my choice. He told me he was sitting over by the lone blue cup and if I would meet him there. I walked over and while taking off my coat I glanced over by the counter where he was placing my order. He was looking at me. Hopeful? Scared? I was non-plussed. I cracked open my new CD. No liner notes. Damn.

He came back with my tea and a large shortbread cookie with Smarties baked in. Through the cooking process, the candy shells cracked like a very colourful desert. It was a delightful gesture, though.

He smelled nice, though it was an applied scent. The notes weren't offensive. He wore no hair product.

This is what I learned:

His name is Jonathan.

He has never been married.

He's been working for himself since the age of sixteen.

He owns properties, manages them in a directorial way and otherwise manages his stock portfolio. He has a lot of free time which he uses to take singing, guitar and piano lessons at the Royal Conservatory of Music.

He collects paintings and other pieces of art.

He collects master disks of some cherished assorted music, including the shoe-gazing variety.

He looks like a younger Robert DeNiro, though has been accused of looking like Kevin Kline and Brian Ferry. He looked like DeNiro to me because of his anger.

He has a hard time meeting people, though desperately wants to.

He'd shovelled snow once or twice when he was a kid.

He's had his nose broken five times. He was an angry child, but learned a quiet reserve.

He doesn't go to peoples houses for dinner as he's intolerant of many foods. Dairy. Red meat. He doesn't want to hurt the host's feelings.

He has to take cholesterol-reducing medication. Apparently it's a genetic predisposition.

He doesn't drink other than trace amounts of red wine. He doesn't smoke, eats no red meat, exercises daily and could eat sushi every day of his life. Because he can.

He has unplugged his fridge. Though when he's at a family member's house the first thing he does is look in the fridge.

He is a luddite.

He's never done his own laundry.

He doesn't clean his home. That too is outsourced.

He's removed his superfluous stove as he has never cooked a meal for himself nor for anyone else.

He finds wasted food disheartening and he hates the smell of garbage.

He maintains good eye contact.

He shot up to get me more hot water for my tea.

He has a sixth sense ability (incidentally I've met an inordinate amount of men with some kind of psychic ability). He is able to sum up a person, the true self, just by being in their company. They don't have to utter a word.

He said I am generally a happy person, but I'm prone to dissatisfaction. I get bored of things easily. My greatest block is my lack of patience.

He is right.

He is the most unusual person I've gone out with.

I don't know how I feel about him.