And... scene!

My relationship with The Hungarian has run its course. I think my mistake was taking too long to realize he wasn't playing games. His mistake is that he's completely self-absorbed. Once again, here's a man who says he wants a wife and kids, but doesn't have room in his life (or house) for them.

His house. That's the reason it's over. When he cooked me dinner, I tried to be hospitable and clean up. He told me to just put my plate in the sink. I did and then I cleaned the plate and stuck it in the dishwasher.

He turned around and saw what I was doing.

"What are you doing?" he yelled.

I looked up, confused.

"I told you to put it in the sink. Why are you touching the dishwasher?" He had always barked when he spoke, but now his voice was raised.

Completely aghast, I took the dish out of the dishwasher and put it back in the sink.

"Why did you close the dishwasher door!?" he yelled. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" He stomps in the kitchen and unlatches the dishwasher door.

By this time I had completely evacuated the kitchen and put two pieces of furniture between us: the kitchen island and kitchen table. I was acutely aware that the front door was directly behind me and my purse and car keys were within my reach. I had no idea what was happening or why he was yelling.

"You Americans with your hospitality," he sneered. "I told you to put the dish in the sink. Why didn't you listen to me?"

"I, uh, don't know," I whispered. "My intentions were good." I stood very still and didn't make any sudden movements.

The Hungarian fixes himself another plate and sits back down at the table as if none of this just happened. He gestured for me to sit. I did as I was told.

"If you're going to pout for more than 5 minutes," he began. I halfway stood back up, waiting for him to tell me to leave. "Then we are going to have to talk about this," he finished.

"I grew up very poor," he said. "There was no car, there was no dishwasher..." He had certainly come a long way since then. He drove a brand new Audi and had a BMW motorcycle for the weekends. He lived in a 5-bedroom house in the nice area of town. His house is completely paid off. He had achieved the American dream by anyone's standards. "...I have lived alone my entire life—even my mother would agree—and I am very proud of my things..."

I looked around his kitchen as he spoke. Inside a glass cupboard were six shot glasses perfectly lined up. Everything had an exact place.

"And I don't use my dishwasher," he continued. "They are a waste of time, water and energy."

He got up from the table and walked back to the scene of the crime. He explained to me his life as he hand washed all the dishes. It was not the life I have had. I grew up in this same neighborhood where he worked so hard to live. I have always lived in the upper-middle class bubble. Every label in his house I take for granted because it's always been accessible to me.

"See? All done." He put the last dish in the dish rack adjacent to the sink. I had never even noticed it. He approached me, still sitting silently at the table.

He stood in front me and clutched his heart. "Oh, I am so upset," he joked in a falsetto voice. "I need to go home, have a Valium, a glass of wine, and an appointment with my therapist." Well he had certainly nailed upper-middle class life. "No one has ever spoken to me that way!"

I didn't say anything. That wasn't the problem. The problem is that too many people have.