He Wants Me...He Wants Me Not...He Wants...

Is he flirting with me?

Nah, no way, but then again… He might be.
He pulls me into a bear hug and squeezes me. “It’s so good to see you,” he says for the third time this evening. You would think it had been months since we had last meet, but it hasn’t. He smiles at me as he pulls away. “Do you want a drink?”
Yes, I think, flirting.
He hands me my drink and disappears into the crowd of our friends – maybe not, then.
He sits down next to me on the couch. Aoife is trying to get his attention, and Rob is trying to get mine. She’s chatty, he’s loud – between the two of them it’s impossible to carry on a conversation. It’s no use. Here’s Eoin and John, back from the bar; and Roisin and Lisa - who knows where they’ve been; and Damien, late as usual, finally arrives.
He gives me a rueful smile. Yes, definitely flirting.
Over the crush of people and the buzz of conversation he leans in to talk to me. He stares into my eyes and I feel my lips go limp and brain cloud over. His head is inches from mine – all I have to do is move in slightly, but I don’t. I can’t, not here, not with all these people around. Besides which, the situation is, well, it’s complicated.
Despite my attraction to him, I know we are not ideally suited. Do I want to sleep with him? Yes. Would I want to date him? No, probably not; perhaps; uuuuh, I don’t know. Maybe he wouldn’t mind a short but passionate fling – he is a man, after all. Then again, maybe he would – men are often more sensitive than women suppose. Most men like the fantasy of being used for sex; many of them don’t like the reality. I’d take a chance, but we are friends and I don’t want to risk hurting him.
Secondly, there’s Aoife. I know she likes him – a blind man could spot it a mile off. On the one hand, she would probably be a better bet for him than me, but her attitude pisses me off. While she charms everyone else, she cuts me out of conversations and gives me thinly veiled insults. Every time he talks to me, touches my arm or smiles at me, I feel the daggers of her cold, hard stare.
A smarter woman would know better. I’m caught between two rival instincts. I don’t want to fight over a man, it’s undignified and, if it comes down to it, more than a little pathetic; nor do I want to back down from a challenge. If she was my friend I’d back off, but she’s not and so the ladylike, mature part of me is warring with the desire to lean over, poke her in the ribs, and say, ‘Bring it on, bitch!’
All relationships involve some sort of power play, at least initially. Whoever appears to be the most emotionally invested tends to lose. I am not going to sit here vying for his attention, chasing after him like a schoolgirl. If there is one thing I’ve learnt about men is that it’s better to let them think they are chasing you. I smile sweetly then get up and sit beside Damien.
This is a gamble. That’s the other thing I’ve learnt about men – the nicer they are, the more modest and self-effacing they tend to be. This makes them blind to hints, to the intricacies of seduction.
Aoife is not prepared to risk her intentions being misunderstood. She’s not subtle, and as the weeks go by her interest is ever more evident. I can’t work out if he hasn’t noticed or if he just doesn’t care. Then again, he hasn’t made a move on me either. Maybe he’s just playing games, intentionally pitting us against each other to see what happens.
I don’t want to care, but I can’t help keeping an eye on the situation out of the corner of my eye. Aoife is practically sitting on his lap. He looks uncomfortable. His legs are pointed away from her and he’s talking to Rob and Roisin. I can’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction.
“What the story with you guys?” asks Damien and I shrug my shoulders.
“Nothing.”
“You should go for it,” he advises. “He’s a great guy.”
That’s what I thought too – now I’m not so sure.
Fifteen minutes later he moves around and sits beside me. He gives me a hug, smells my hair and sighs.
Yes, definitely flirting.
“Let’s dance,” I say and grab both boys by the hands.
On the dance floor he moves up close to me. Damien disappears leaving us alone. His leans down and sings softly into my ear. His lips are close to mine.
Absolutely flirting.
I’m annoyed, both with him and with myself.
He’s reversed the gender expectations. I suspect what he wants is for me to be the one to cross the chasm of the last few centimetres between us. Normally I wouldn’t care, but he’s been sending me mixed signals for weeks. I’m not prepared to take responsibility for moving things forward, not with our friends around, not when I may be made to look foolish, and not when the truth is I really don’t know what I want.
I move back, he moves in, I move back, just slightly and smile, he moves in then turns his head.
“Hey, there’s Ro,” he says and calls her over to dance with us. She shakes her head and walks back to our friends.
No, not flirting. Damn.
“She looks great tonight,” he says.
Not flirting, or worse – a ploy to make me jealous?
“She’s lovely,” I say, because it’s true.
He pulls me closer. “You smell good,” he says.
Maybe flirting.
“So do you,” I say and he does. He smells like soap and masculinity. It’s a good combination.
“You’re so sweet,” he says and I wonder what exactly that means. Flirting, not flirting?
“Do you want a drink?” I ask.
“Oh crap, I promised to get one for Aoife.”
Not flirting.
He turns back to me. “Wait here,” he commands, but I’m not going to stand on the middle of the dance floor like a lost soul cooling my heels for him.
Lisa is outside smoking a cigarette.
“Hey Anne, let me ask you something,” she says. “How do you know if a guy actually likes you or not?”
I laugh and bum a cigarette off her. “When you don’t have to ask that question.”
We head back inside and I collect my coat.
“Why are you going?” he asks.
Because I’m tired of playing games; because I want him to man up; because I want him to stop messing with my head; because the more evenings he half-flirts with me the less I like him.
“I’m bored with you,” I say and his face looks shocked and hurt.
“I’m just joking,” I back-pedal. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Do you want to meet for a drink next week?” he asks.
I shrug my shoulders and smile. “I might,” I say and it’s an honest answer.
At this stage I no longer know.