The Brooklyn Lager was flowing and the tequila shots were being thrown back at Greenwich Treehouse on a mild spring evening. Several journalistic colleagues and I were celebrating the end of an academic year that would see our publication win two national awards, holding nothing back in our jubilation. Suddenly, my Blackberry vibrated; I looked down and saw her name on my screen. “Sorry guys, I gotta see about a girl,” I said, shamelessly ripping off Matt Damon ripping off Robin Williams.

I hadn’t expected her to get back to me. Why should I have? Over two years, our dalliance lay somewhere between a 21st century Edith Wharton novel and a Woody Allen wet dream: endless conversations at 24-hour diners, long nights at Manhattan watering holes, kisses on the steps of St. Patrick’s. And staying true to Ms. Wharton’s particular style, the relationship had yet to be consummated.

Not through any fault of my own, mind you. She knew how much I cared about her; hell, I had told her as much. The night she lost her phone in the cab on the way to that shitty bar in Midtown, I had spent the better part of two hours ceaselessly dialing her number, literally praying that I could retrieve the device and salvage the evening. And I had, even paying the cabbie $20 for his trouble after he finally picked up and made his way back from Harlem. My reward was three months without so much as a text message returned.

So it’s safe to say that I hardly expected her to follow up on my request to see her before I went home for the summer. “Hey, where should I meet you?” she texted. I was thoroughly sozzled, but couldn’t have cared less. This was the beautiful siren of my dreams, the one who loved Scorsese films and enjoyed a good single-malt and believed that reading is sexy. I wanted nothing more than to see her again, even if I was in a less-than-ideal shape to take a lady about town.

I walked out of Treehouse, put on my best face and met her at a bougie place not too far from the Stonewall. I ordered a bottle of Chimay, which we shared as we discussed her love for Hitchcock and her internship at the film production company. “So, are you ready to see the best cocktail bar in New York?” I asked. She smiled.

During the cab ride to Hotel Delmano, we discussed the Surrealist concept of sedimentation — the notion that the urban space is littered with a million experiences stacked and compressed on top of one another, like a scrapbook several thousand photographs thick. She understood what I meant; together we had left our mark upon this gorgeous, wretched city, traversing the places we had read about and longed to make our own. Williamsburg, that wonderful, forsaken playground for those of youth and vigor, would be next.

Maybe it’s the early 20th century, speakeasy aesthetic of the place; more likely, it’s some combination of the pricetag and the brilliantly mixed, deceptively strong elixirs they serve. In any case, a date at Delmano virtually ensures that, come the magic hour, you will not be alone. We imbibed several cocktails, followed by red wine drunk over a magnificent cheese platter. The conversation flowed, the attraction mutual, and I was thoroughly happy — such that I was glad to spend nearly my entire work study check on the night. Before long, we were in the backseat of a taxi bound for my Manhattan abode, locked in a passionate embrace as rain battered the windows.

She was in my bedroom, drinking Jameson and swaying to Billie Holiday’s majestic single-octave croon. I grabbed the mouthwash and looked into the bathroom mirror. After 18 months, I thought, she’s finally here. Back in the bedroom, she wanted to dance. Holding each other close, she gently spoke into my ear. “Do you think you could date me?” she asked. I looked into her eyes and smiled: “I thought you would never ask.”

The next week progressed as I should have expected: multiple text messages unanswered, several phone calls straight to voicemail. I went home for the summer without seeing her again. The sweltering months that followed were muggy and miserable, full of self-loathing and overanalyzation that ate away at the pit of my stomach. What she had told me that night only confirmed any long-standing suspicions about a fear of commitment. Despite my most passionate overtures, I was unable to receive even the slightest acknowledgement — the faintest response to my plea that maybe things could be different, if she was only willing to try. The simplest text would have seen my heart swell with exaltation, as it always did, and she could not even allow me that.

A few months ago, on a drunken night wandering around the West Village, I messaged her.

“Did I ever treat you wrong? Just tell me that much. I never meant to do you no harm.”

I naturally expected to be ignored. Twelve minutes later, my phone buzzed.

“You never treated me wrongly, never did anything to harm me,” the screen read. “I just don’t think that I deserve someone like yourself.”

I sighed, and delivered my final correspondence. “What a foolish thing to think.”