Night at the Opera

A leap of faith from the balcony cost me a shot at what could've been.

Illustration by Almaz Wilson

I am not someone you’d call a heartbreaker. When I turned thirty-five a couple years ago, my love life had consisted mostly of a series of flings best categorized as “friendly.” Even my two serious relationships had started off platonic, and evolved in a manner that would never be the subject of a bodice-ripper. I was the guy you went out with when the guy you really cared about had broken your heart. The fun, easy-to-be-with one who made you feel good about yourself again. Not someone who commanded–or expected–a great deal of emotional investment. Breakups usually consisted of a hug and an offer to set me up with a friend who was “not really looking for anything too serious right now.” I was certainly not the type to make women cry–especially not on the first date.

As I grew older, though, I found myself looking for a more serious relationship. But I was not at all used to the first awkward steps down possible-marriage road. My actual “dating” skills were e…