Nine years ago I woke up early – way before tragedy altered everyone’s life – so I could go for a top-down drive. Surely you remember how gorgeous the weather was on the east coast that morning. About five hours after I left my place that morning, I had burned almost a whole tank of gas, and traced most of my favorite country roads.

For every day rides, the radio is pegged to NPR; when I go driving, however, the road gets a soundtrack. Lenny Kravitz, Ray Charles, Sinatra, Chuck Brown, & Jill Scott all kept me company that morning. A little after 11am, I pulled into a parking space right in front of my coffeeshop. Mack the Knife was still blaring from my speakers while I was singing at a volume way too high for my terrible voice.

It may read as too easy, too convenient, even revisionist, but when I looked at people crying, and the saw the faces of everyone in the room, my heart sank in a way that told me the world had changed forever.

I woke during a part of the morning I normally consider part of the prior night. The Only Slightly Sleazy Lobbyist was headed to the other coast for a month or so and I was driving him to the airport… the really far away airport. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement he wouldn’t have to pay cab fare or parking charges and didn’t have to worry about leaving his ride sitting on the same street for that long, and I got use of his convertible for a few weeks.

After I dropped him at the curb, I was quickly reminded how much I hate the suburbs, their sprawl, and maddening traffic. As I was already that far away from the city, I decided to reward myself with a trip to Misha’s, the best coffee within a hundred miles of DC*. There are two rooms in Misha’s. If you head to the left of the counter, there is a smattering of two-tops (affectionately known as deuces in industry parlance.) To the right, is what used to be the smoking room (smokers where banished to the patio about a year ago, and cigar smokers two years before that.) Sitting in the smoking room means that you take a seat at the large communal table and, by custom, sitting there indicates your understood agreement to participate in conversation with your tablemates. This morning was no different.

A Brit, a retired Navy Captain, a law student, and I discussed economics, the ascension of Elena Kagan to the high court, and a smattering of other topics too. And then a woman I once dated walked into the room.

“Good morning, Refugee” she said in tone that had a patina of friendship that barely masked the hostility beneath it.

“Good morning, Ava; would you care to have a seat?”

“Actually, I just decided not to stay, but walk me to my car – I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

The other gentlemen in the room gave me sympathetic looks as I rose from my chair. “Be back in a minute, fellas” I said with the false bravado of a man who knows that he’s about to have a difficult conversation with a pretty woman.

Once we were safely out of earshot of innocent bystanders, Ava said “You know, it’s not nice to just stop returning a girl’s phone calls. Don’t you think you owe me some kind of explanation?”

As is my habit, I took a deep pull of air to think for a moment. “Ava, we’re both adults, so I’ll let you determine my answer. On a scale of one to ten, how candid of an explanation would you like – with one being me thinking of some random platitudes that will be true but only because they’re so vague that they could apply to anything…”

“And ten?” Ava interrupted.

“Ten would be the answer I would give to one of my closest friends if they asked the same question?”

“Let’s go with 8, you can always ratchet it up if you don’t feel like you’ve been mean enough.”

“It’s not about being mean, just skipping the steps where I say something that probably wouldn’t be as much answer as you would want. The level 8 explanation is that we never liked each other enough to call before the party, only after it was over… and I really didn’t like what that said about me. I don’t want to be the man who calls in the small hours of the night.”

It was Ava’s turn to take a deep breath. “Well, at least I know… was that really so hard to say?”

“Yes, yes, it was.”

* yes, my dear Paige, this is acknowledgment that you were right – La Colombe makes a better espresso than my beloved Misha’s.

“I think this is a test at best and a trap at worst” I said in a winking tone to my new verbal-sparring partner. She shot me a look that seemed to communicate a clear message that my conversational jab would not give me any breathing room and my only practical option was to answer the question that her date could not: what is the difference between romantic and foolish.

I attempted the “let-the-silence-work-for-you approach” but she knew it too. Jessica simply sat there holding my gaze until I acquiesced and answered the question. She did re-cross her legs at one point during the ten second staring contest. It was either an attempt to display her resolve by demonstrating her capacity to multitask while keeping eye contact or it was an effort to weaken my resolve by giving me a better look at her platform mary-janes, Either way, it worked.

“The differential between foolish and romantic exists primarily in the perspective of the object of the effort” I began. “To be sure, there are other distinguishing characteristics, however, the receiver holds the primary lever of distinction. Foolish is a weekend in Paris when your lover doesn’t have a passport or that much interest; romantic is a weekend in Paris when it’s the grand gesture that indicates depth of interest. Foolish is suggesting a walk in the rain when all your date wants to do is go home; romantic is a walk in the rain when neither cares much about the falling drops because all you want to do is make the night last just that much longer. Foolish is the mix-tape for the woman who is unmoved by music, romantic is the mix-tape of songs with lyrics that felt like saccharine before but now seem like honey since you met her.”

It was now my turn to win the game of silent satisfaction. Jessica took a deep pull on her glass of pinot noir before responding “Do you always have that smug little smile when you think you’ve done well?”

That made me laugh at the familiarity of the notion. “An ex-girlfriend/current good friend refers to that as my ‘checkmate grin’… she tells me that I’ve had it for quite a while. I’d get rid of it if I could but I’d also be willing to bet that the differential between its benefits and liabilities is slim like skinny-jeans on a hipster.”

“There you go again – using a whole mouthful of words…”

“By the By, madame, I do think the lady doth protest too much” I interrupted. “Any woman who makes reference to the convoluted language of Cornell West, and differentiates between the licking and sucking of farm animal gonads, all in the same conversation… well, clearly that lady must like words, and lingering lyrical phrases.”

This begat another loaded pause in our conversation. There was nothing awkward about this silent beat or any of its precedents; it was just filled with more non-verbal communication than any two strangers have a right to expect.

Jessica gave me another asymetrical smile – the right corner of her mouth seems to be a bit higher than the left when she seems pleased – and asked “So I think I know what your ex means with the term ‘Checkmate Grin’ but explain it to me anyway.”

I told her the story… amidst many interlocutory tangents and laughter.

“So you know I have to ask” Jessica said once I finally reached the end of that tale.

“Jessica, are you fishing for a compliment?” I jokingly chided.

“Not in the least… I know these shoes are hot; I’m just checking your skills” She fired back.

“Well played… and I concur – those Mary Jane’s are pretty-damned hot. OK, the obvious stuff: one inch platforms to go with the four inch heel makes them ‘Friday’ shoes that are a touch too sexy for other days of the week… and I’m sure that at least one of your colleagues took extra notice in a way that made you smile a little…”

“Quit stalling” Jessica deadpanned.

“Fine” I replied, “my guess is that, like a good friend of mine likes to say, they’re ‘wearable art’ and they worth every one the massive stack of pennies required to get ‘em… and I’ll guess that they’re Dolce Gabana.”

Another loaded pause, another shared smile, “Was I right?” I asked.

“No” Jessica replied with the same bent smile, “but you’re not far off.”

“So we’ve been sitting here for about ninety minutes and somehow I’ve let you get away with asking at least three questions for every one you answer…”

“And how do you propose to resolve that, Refugee?”

“In a moment, I’m going to excuse myself and go to the washcloset” I said while pulling a pen from my right breast pocket and a napkin from the bar. “While I’m gone you can answer three questions for me” I said while cupping my right hand over the napkin to avoid her peaking.

“Make ‘em good” was Jessica’s only reply.

I thought for another moment and then slid the napkin and pen her way. It read:

1 – why?

2 – when?

3 – how?

A few minutes later I was back at the bar. The napkin was turned face down. I flipped it over after a quick scan of Jessica’s face. I read it twice… just to be sure.

Her answers:

1 – why? Good conversations are like a dance. You may take too many steps but you Tango really well.

2 – when? If you haven’t figured that out by now, you don’t read women as well as you think

3 – how? A little bit of tango, and a little bit of waltz… and I’m not talking conversation

“Jimmy, I’ll take both of our checks now, please.”

So let’s suppose that you’re participating in some random online dating site. Let’s further suppose that you’re mostly jaded to the process but you do, however cross some random profile that intrigues you. Said profile is beautifully written and you’re the kinda person whose head is turned by well turned phrases. Suppose you have just enough bourbon to mitigate your fatigue with online dating in specific and dating in general and write this person a message.

Let us also suppose that your brilliantly crafted message (because you write really well with the aid of bourbon) receives an almost immediate and breathy response. This hypothetical message, still demonstrating this person’s ability to massage words, happens to include an email address and a suggestion that you use that for future contact.

Even though this scenario is entirely fictional, you would probably do a little google-stalking and some facebook searching. So suppose that even the most cursory of e-snooping demonstrates that the new object of your hypothetical fascination proves to be a nutter… like really a nutter. Like maybe, writes a blog that indicates this person is a “birther” kind of nutter. Like maybe thinks that Sarah Palin is “brilliant” and Glen Beck is a “journalist in the mold of Murrow.” See? Complete nutter… hypothetically speaking, of course.

So supposing all of those things happened to you, how would you respond? Would you respond or would you just back away very slowly trying not to disturb the crazy?