Single Young Men

They are exhausting.

I get into conversations with single young men. 
They are all alike.
"When did you move to the city?" "About a month ago," I say.
They talk about work, the place they were born, and how great the city is.
Then they shut up.
They want to talk, but not to a man.
So they mutter some words and look at their phones.

They think, "Soon, the girl will stop talking to her friend. 
I'll tell her about my job, 
no, 
play with my car keys. 
Say girls from her country are my weakness. 
What was the name of this guy?”  

They use the same routines from the same gurus 
every time.
Each rehearsal with less love.  

Sometimes I see them more than once. 
Another plain T-shirt, jersey shorts, long socks, 1-second smiles, 
and conversation around drinks. 
The older men shake your hand, 
the younger men squeeze it. 
There is some reciprocity, 
but it is public and exaggerated. 

They can't believe that I don't want to fuck the same girl they do, 
or any at all, 
or that I don't invite them to my events because their energy is like their conversation: draining, disingenuous, and self-centered.

When you leave, you feel incomplete. 
It's midnight. 
No one knows anything about anyone. 
But the men know the first names of two of the girls and that you are a threat. They think you have an agenda. 

I once could tolerate these interactions. 
As a man around the third of his life, I should be more forgiving. 
I was there once. 
But I see the wide back and thin legs and think 
maybe I should read Tolstoy, I haven't read him since breakfast.