I walked home feeling guilty and awful. Was there something wrong with me that Josh’s offer to hail me a cab made me so angry? What was my problem, anyway? A guy asks me to call him so he knows I got home in one piece, and I want to puke on his shoes and flee the scene of the crime, maybe stopping at the good deli on the way home for a cookie. Is that normal? How was I ever going to find a boyfriend, a husband, or a man who might actually be a good father from the pool of guys I actually found attractive? Would the guy who told me to come out to LA so he could slap me in the face while I sucked his dick laugh patiently at my cousin Sherman’s corny jokes on Passover? Would the guy who said with utmost romantic sincerity that “fucking me was like a porno” be there to wipe down my sweaty forehead after hours of labor? To nurse me through panic attacks and career shifts and the alternating Saturday afternoons of crying in long stretches for no apparent reason other than that it’s simply a part of a messy, human adult life? Here was a good guy — a mensch — with the libido of a teenager and a nice apartment who makes a good living, who wants to take me out on a Saturday night, and I couldn’t even do him the favor of falling in love with him and teabagging his shaved junk.