Everybody who’s single goes through the “Dead Cat Bounce.” Wall Street uses the term when the stock market plunges, bounces up, and then continues dying. Dating is like that. You’re in a dateless free-fall, bounce up when you meet someone great, then plummet toward the ground even faster. Hence, one man’s entry in his “Dead Cat Diary.”

Met a dreamy guy named Jake. Problem is, he’s giving me that classic “come here/go away” vibe. He introduced himself at the bar, said he’s wanted to meet me for a long time and then, 10 minutes later, he leaves without saying goodbye.

I saw him a few days later at a party. He sneaks up behind me, whispers “How are you, handsome?” and gives me a hug.

And 10 minutes later he leaves without saying goodbye.

What am I missing? He always acts so interested, but he never stays put long enough to get my claws in him.

Jake e-mailed and asked me out tonight! Or at least I think he did. I swear if he were the editor of a fashion magazine they’d call it Vague.

Home. 7:45 p.m. My plan: Charm the pants off him. I’m taking him to three different places. This will create energy and a quick change of scenery as his ambivalence moves from lusting after me to forgetting my name to wanting to marry me.

Jake’s loft. 8:00 p.m. Awkward as hell. Greeted me by shaking my hand. Shaking my hand!

Drinks. 8:15 p.m. I made sure our hands touched at the bar; I made sure our legs touched under the table. I tried to make sure my signals were unmistakable. No dice. He pulls away. But he seems to moon over me, his wide-set brown eyes seemingly incapable of looking away from me.

Restaurant. 9:00 p.m. Better. When I touched his hand on the table he didn’t pull away. Incremental steps in a restaurant make for great leaps in the bedroom, I always say.

Dessert. 10:30 p.m. We walk over to the place next door and get ice cream cones. Come on, Jake, ask me for a taste, I think. I want to see you lick my cone. I offer him some. “No thanks,” he says. Rats.

Jake’s loft. 11:05 p.m. We’re sitting on the couch. I make my move. He makes a counter-move. I give up; he moves in. I respond; he pulls away.

Shit.

I guess I could have pressed the issue but I really hate that whole seduction thing. I don’t want to feel like I manipulated somebody into bed.

He yawns and says he has to get up early in the morning. At the door I went to shake his hand. He pulls me into him and gives me a deep, soulful kiss.

Then he nudges me out the door and shuts it.

Good news: Jake called me after our “date.” Great news: He wants to go out again. Bad news: He wants to do it in three weeks. Man, he’s ambivalenting me from one end of town to the other.

Good news: A beautiful guy moved in to the apartment across the way. Bad news: my best friend’s dating him. Horrible news: The guy is Jake’s ex-boyfriend. I swear life is one hot boiling vat of homo juice.

At breakfast I was booking my odds. Chances I’ll die single: Great. Chances I’ll have sex before I die single: Not as great.

Work. 9:30 a.m. Jake found out about his ex moving in next door and I can just feel him pulling away.

E-mail. 9:31 a.m. Jake, no matter how awkward it may seem, I promise you it’s worse than you think. See, your ex-boyfriend didn’t just move in next door. We can look through our windows and wave to each other. And it’s worse than that. The guy he’s dating? He isn’t just a friend of mine; he’s my best friend.

I believe the word you’re looking for is “FUCK!”

E-mail. 9:32 a.m. Mike, let’s just be friends.

Lunch. 12:15 p.m. Note to self: Never confuse a dating man’s hope with the Dead Cat Bounce. I just hope the parachute opens before I hit the ground.