From time to time she'd ask me something about myself, but I'd no sooner start talking than she'd take off into another narrative of her own. Now, I'm a skilled conversationalist, and can easily hold up my end in any real dialogue, and have fun doing so. Generally, I don't talk about myself unless someone asks a direct question or something said brings up a personal experience that's relevant. But I'm a good listener, and I also enjoy listening to people; you learn a lot that way.

So I wasn't upset by this state of affairs, exactly. Taken at face value, it was as revealing of S.'s personality as I could have wanted, in terms of qualifying her as a prospect. Occasionally I asked myself if this performance constituted a deliberate turn-the-tables act on her part, a parody of the stereotypical guy who can only rattle on about himself and his interests. But it seemed genuinely her way of behaving, not even affected by any first-date nervousness. Since it left me few openings for anything beyond brief comments, I mostly kept my ears open, and watched. And pondered: Who on earth could this woman possibly meet who will want to enter this non-stop verbal environment?

Also, because I do attend closely, another question arose: Where would anyone fit into the frenetic, non-stop microcosm she described? Because this discourse made it clear that S., my date, had a full plate 24/7, 365 days a year. Her professional life; courses she takes toward a planned career change; 2 (two -- count 'em) therapists; dance and exercise classes; her teenage son; her dog; her community-service activities; her other projects. I'd had some hint of all this from her online profile, a bit more from our phone conversation, but now I began to get the complete picture. (Did I mention that she prefers to work late at night, between midnight and 5 a.m.?)

I have involved myself with such women before, never successfully. S. typifies the college-educated, liberated U.S. women of my generation who would be considered age-appropriate for me (45+). Previously closed doors have opened for them, a change I heartily endorse. They do want it all, and I admire them for that, and wish them luck. I don't resent their ambition or their striving; I think it's a good thing, for them and for society. But as one result, having a husband/boyfriend/lover becomes another item on a to-do checklist, as does having a marriage or other committed, long-term relationship.

I'm old-fashioned enough that I don't want to have to slot my time with my significant other into an overcrowded calendar, or compete with a jazzercise session for her attention. In fact, I begin to suspect that a more traditional marriage -- in which both partners teamed up not just in their private lives but in their income-producing activities, as my own parents did -- would work best for me. I do know, from hard experience, that a woman who insists on maintaining her own professional life, and her own separate living space, and all her other activities, will not have room on her schedule for the extended stretches of time alone together from which intimacy emerges, nor, certainly, for the lengthy, frequent, and spontaneous bouts of lovemaking that I cherish.

So, as I said, I knew within a few minutes that I'd pass on this one, and in a few hours I understood exactly why. I figured out a few more things to look for, and a few more questions to ask, during the initial contact occasions, before the first face-to-face. Thus I didn't find the afternoon unproductive. And, because I'd come with no real expectations, not disappointing either.

We had coffee. The check came. S. excused herself to go to the bathroom. I paid the bill, which I didn't at all mind doing, even under the circumstances; in some ways I'm a gentleman of the old school. She came back, and neither asked what her share of the bill was nor thanked me for paying it. (This, again, a not-uncommon behavior in a woman her age from the States.) We put on our coats and walked to the corner, where we parted ways with an assurance to call that neither of us meant.

As I said in that earlier post, sex in the city ain't for sissies. And neither is romance when you reach middle age. So, at the moment, there's nothing shaking here in the romance department. The winter of my discontent. Looking forward to the thaw, and the running of the sap.