Scratch-Off Romance: When the Man-Lottery Gives You Lemons

I thought I'd hit the man-lottery jackpot! Let’s call him Ethan. You know the feeling when you find someone who checks off every little thing on that carefully curated mental list you've been carrying around since your first dating disaster? Yep, Ethan was THAT guy. Tall enough to reach the top shelf, smart enough to keep up with my sass, funny enough to make me snort (charmingly, of course), and thoughtful enough to remember how I take my margarita (it's not that complicated, but you'd be surprised).

Now, don’t get me wrong, there weren't immediate fireworks exploding in the background, no confetti cannons going off at our first kiss. It was less grand pyrotechnics and more of a slow-burning ember. You know, the kind you need to gently coax and nurture with a few careful breaths and strategically placed dry leaves. I was excited about gently blowing on this ember, hopeful it would flare up into something hotter.

Ethan was one of those rare unicorn-type men who had been to therapy, done the work, and actually did the things most just pretend to in their Bumble bios. He cooked dinners tailored to my ridiculous dietary whims, made me spicy margaritas like a professional bartender, and packed me thoughtful lunches for work, cutting the fat off the lamb because I just can't deal with that texture. Who even does that without rolling their eyes? Ethan, apparently.

But what really got me were those subtle moments, like how he held my hand, fingers effortlessly laced, as we wandered through the streets of Hobart. Or the gentle kisses he always planted on me, or how effortlessly he made me laugh with his quick banter and sarcastic commentary. He performed affection so convincingly that even the hopeless romantic cynic in me began to buy into it.

Our last weekend together encapsulated this perfectly. He sent me an excited text before dinner, telling me he was looking forward to seeing me. We had dinner, followed by a delightful night at the Uni Revue at Theatre Royal, where he kissed me tenderly in the theatre bar before we headed home together. The next morning, it was Ethan who suggested breakfast, so we walked the leisurely two kilometres to Moonah, hand in hand, chatting effortlessly. Later, back at mine, he insisted on massaging my sore neck, another thoughtful gesture. When I drove him home, he casually took my hand while I navigated traffic, a small yet intimate moment, the kind that reassures you someone is genuinely invested.

Yet, despite these gestures, by evening my women's intuition was telling me something had shifted. The next day, feeling uncertain, I jokingly sent him a probation survey, a playful attempt at gauging where we stood. His responses were underwhelming, to say the least. My gut was confirmed when we spoke on the phone, and he gently confessed his emotions weren't growing. I was baffled, how could he perform intimacy so authentically yet feel nothing?

It wasn't a fiery love affair, but we’d discussed wanting something grounded, built slowly on friendship and mutual affection. I believed that's precisely what we were nurturing. Turns out, perhaps Ethan was chasing the elusive fireworks, the explosive, thrilling variety. The kind I've learned at 41 are often just red flags disguised as passion.

Turns out my man-lottery win was more of a scratch-off with a polite "better luck next time" rather than the jackpot I'd envisioned. Ouch. But hey, at least he didn't ghost me or vanish into the Hobart fog.

As much as it stung, I’m actually grateful, because Ethan reminded me that true intimacy isn’t about ticking off boxes or performing romantic gestures. It's about someone brave enough to blow gently on the embers with you, waiting patiently to see if a real fire ignites.

Next time, I think I'll aim for a little more blaze and maybe fewer checklists.