3/03/02 - 1:17 a.m.

Bachelorette #2 invited me over to her place tonight, saying she'd had a "REALLY great time" Thursday. Thursday she'd driven a long ways out of her way to bring me home. And then offered to cook me dinner Saturday. Surely -- surely -- this was a date. I'd even decided I'd pissed her off by not kissing her good night that night, our second evening out.

I was certain: this third date, in her apartment -- after a home-cooked meal, wine flowing -- she would be expecting me to make a move. I'll save you the suspense: she wasn't. Fortunately, I didn't make much of a move, so when she gave me a clear "no" signal I was able to make a joke about it. And so here I am, wrong again. "I think I've been getting a green light for a while..." I'd started to write in my diary this afternoon....

But I felt something strange when I got home. I really didn't mind. At all. You'd think, getting shut down like that, that I'd feel some rejection. But I didn't.

Maybe I never really expected Bachelorette #2 to touch my emotions, so there was nothing to lose. Or maybe I have reservoirs of self-assurance now, some left-over positivity from the warmth I get from Lady Friend.

I even wondered if maybe I'm already in love with Lady Friend, and I don't know it, but one of the side effects is that it doesn't matter when other people reject me.

Even when I thought I had a shot at Bachelorette #2, I'd asked myself if tonight could really be that simple -- that I'd have a nice pleasurable-but-detached encounter, and it would be completely harmless to my evolving sense of self esteem and the tender feelings I have for Lady Friend that are in a holding pattern. And I wasn't sure.

But I went ahead with tonight anyways. (And for better or worse, ended up exactly where I started.)

And Lady Friend sent me a nice email Friday....

Ironically, my favorite online diarist spent Saturday on the other end of the couch -- on the receiving end of an unexpected advance from her male friend. "Maybe it is impossible for single men and women to be platonic friends..." she writes in her journal. It seems like everyone spent Saturday night watching movies they didn't really want to watch, and sending their men-folk home de-illusioned.

But no harm done, really. This dysfunctional dance is still a form of communication and emotional disclosure, I guess.

Maybe eventually I'll even know what it is that I'm feeling.