Pavlov hits me with more bad news every time I answer the phone

I must have a romantic shelf life of about 48 hours.

Looks good in the window, fellas, but get her home and she'll start stinking up your fridge. Thank you, Non-date, thank you Planter man for this startling insight.

And thank you, G.I.Q.

I did not expect to see him Friday, nor did I expect a text at seven about chacarera class, nor the call at T minus forty minutes to say, "I'm freaking out again," "rethinking" (his word or mine?).

Knowing my insatiable, masochistic curiosity in matters of the heart, you should not be at all surprised that I went. That I met him in an Irish pub, chugged a Smithwick's and averted eye contact (both of us avoiding any mention of the immediate conversation), then made may way to the dance studio to humiliate myself attempting the finer figures of folklore.

What really surprised me was ending up in Koreatown, talking Dostoevsky over Bi Bim Bap with his friends (a couple seemingly under the impression that we are also a "couple"), getting dragged back to the milonga at midnight in grungy jeans, and—then later—sobbing into a pillar in the 34th St subway station at 2 am.

Perhaps, in my deer in headlights skittishness, I skipped a step. That's what my new shrink says. "What would the world look like, do you think, if you thought you were worth the time?" Because what kind of man breaks up like that?

(I changed my mind. I'm done. But, by all means, I would still really like it if you came and spent the evening with me... Please?)

Normal social dicta would recommend not communicating your whereabouts to the girl you're trying to slough off, let alone inviting her along. "It will make you happy," he said. "Come. Have a beer, feel better."

So maybe I missed a cry for help, maybe I failed the test of muster. Maybe I should have just said, "I'm scared too."

If a tree shows up in her own head, does anyone know where she stands?