When I finished my alcohol, steeling myself for the hour-long trip back again to the East Bay, i acquired a text from her:

hey sorry, simply got a call that my father is within the medical center down at stanford and I also have to be down there right away

We suspected, needless to say, she’d bothered to text at all—condemning her father to the hospital, of all things—I still don’t quite understand that she’d received no such call, that the text, like almost everything else that night, was just another untruth, though why. Twenty moments earlier she’d told me he worked as Air Force colonel on Guam. Nevertheless, we informed her that we hoped things exercised all suitable for him. It didn’t, after every thing, seem quite worth your time and effort to call her away on it.

we drank down the final associated with alcohol, adding my personal little obelisk next to hers, and walked away alone to the Inner Sunset’s midnight fog.

When I headed toward the BART section, the wind through the Pacific rushing down marketplace Street’s metal canyon, we wondered for a minute why she’d chose to leave. Did she think I believed she had—misrepresented myself that I had—in the same way which? Had been she someone taller that is anticipating? Someone smarter? Somebody with more muscle tissue or a much much deeper sound? We noticed long-repressed anxieties about my masculinity surfacing once more, and I opened my OkCupid profile on my phone, conscious, for the first time, that maybe I had embellished it as I headed down the escalator into the station at Civic Center. There did seem—didn’t there?—a slightly more tone that is hardened the profile, an over-exaggeration of my fascination with baseball perhaps, a notably disingenuous accounting of my intimate prowess. I’dn’t been conscious of some of our when making the profile, nonetheless it appeared to me personally now like my very own bad faith work to—as those Ron Jeremy sidebar ads so frequently promise—amplify my maleness.

But In addition found myself wondering why we cared a great deal that Aubrey had left. Why wasn’t I relieved?

And wasn’t my personal work to entertain her—and to please her and, yes, to seduce her—simply element of some selfish, bad faith scheme to prop up my personal ego? We stood in the platform waiting around for a train that is oakland-bound scrolling through my very own “ just just What I’m doing with my entire life” area. There is, I was thinking, some truth to it; I happened to be certainly “doing a post-mfa fellowship in poetry” and I also did—and do—“run marathons.” But I’d additionally written that “I swim and cook, explore the town and nation, and do yoga,” things which were real, sometimes, at different points within my life, but which now appeared like the interests of the self that is composite a hybrid of my most readily useful moments and characteristics crafted—carefully, painstakingly—to appeal to your midtwenties, cosmopolitan group of well-read females that we hoped to attract.

Perhaps, I was thinking to myself once the BART train screamed in to the section, Aubrey hadn’t kept for almost any explanation at all regarding my masculinity. Possibly it wasn’t about my biceps, or my sound, or my habit that is particular we myself despise, of closing every phrase by trailing nervously off into silence. The train whispered to an end, the crowd pushing en masse toward the doors. Possibly, we thought to myself, it’s that I’m a sociopath.

Just as much as we would desire to imagine those very first, tentative texts between Sartre and Beauvoir, bad faith exists, needless to say, not just with regards to internet dating but in countless real-world circumstances also. I will be acting in bad faith, as an example, whenever I treat my waiter as though he’s only a waiter, an item selfhood that is lacking the shape, state, of a partner or hobbies or perhaps a childhood. Therefore too is my waiter himself acting constantly in bad faith, simply playing, Sartre claims, at being truly a waiter. “He bends ahead a touch too eagerly,” Sartre writes of his waiter; “his sound, their eyes show a pastime a little too solicitous when it comes to order for the consumer.” My waiter is a waiter, Sartre states, only “as the actor is Hamlet,” miming the gestures which he imagines recommend in my opinion those of a waiter.