The recipe for love is disaster

Get the vodka and the vermouth, stir them together, throw two olives in a conical glass and there you have it, a perfect Martine. If only love came with a recipe. I mean, sometimes all the ingredients are there, but how to put them together? What are the steps? Where are the instructions?
I have the vodka, the vermouth, the olives, the chosen one. What am I missing? How do I know if he likes me back? People told me I had him on my hands. Do I, now? Because it sure doesn’t seem so. It looks like the ingredients don’t go together — the measures are all wrong. I mixed them in all possible ways, but the taste is just not right.
The chosen one? We live in the same building, his house just two floors above mine. German, with this enticing English accent. Brown hair, brown eyes, and a beautiful smile. The cutest laugh and polite manners. Like when he asks me if I want tea when I am at his place. I don’t want tea, honey, I want you, I feel like saying. Every. Single. Time. The tea tastes delicious, though, with hints of honey and disappointment and it is hot in my hands.
Love has no manual, they say. All the things they say while I sit on his couch waiting for much more than just tea. I want you, not tea, the words play in my head. Tea and you, you and tea. Tea, vodka, vermouth, olives, you.
-What is up? He asks me. I’ve been staring at my tea for too long, probably. Stupid tea. Stupid red tea. Stupid me.
-Tea, you, vodka-I blurt out. I realize it makes no sense.-What is this tea? I am just trying to save myself right now. There are so many people on this couch.
-Berries — his face has become the same color of the liquid I hold in my hands — Deep breath, both of us. If everyone could just leave right now. I have been waiting for this climax, you people, come on. He smiles at me, an enigmatic smile, sits by my side, making everyone scooch over. All his guests just stare at us.
The TV is on, some weird video clip is playing, the conversations stops, even the smoke of the joint suspends mid-air. Tensions run high, his hand is on my leg, above the knee. We just stare at each other. He knows I want him. I’ve been flirting for weeks, he’s been flirting back, I think. Weeks of build up, of sitting on his couch with all these other people, sipping his tea. Weeks of talking on messenger, in parties, of innocent touching, of giving hints. Finally, something is happening and all I feel is awkward. Great, just great. Someone introduces a new topic to the conversation and the moment passes, he takes his hand and comments on whatever topic they are rambling about. I just sit there, breathing. He smiles at me, winks.
-Hey, guys, it is getting pretty late and I have to wake up very early tomorrow. — His voice is sweet but assertive. People start getting up, and, slowly, one by one, as if they all guessed what is about to happen. I get up too, everyone else is gone, stand at his door, waiting for his move. He smiles, says goodnight and leaves me hanging. There, at his doorstep, holding my cup of tea. Why am I still holding this stupid cup? I knock again.
-Sorry, forgot this — last effort. Big smile, batting lashes, the cleavage, the touch in his arm. Can I be any more obvious?
He hesitates, looks at me, then down, stops at the cleavage, back right into my eyes. I can feel his hesitation. Why? Why can’t it be easy? I am right here, god damn. Maybe you need the vodka, the vermouth, the olives. The whole freaking martini. For a minute we just stand there, staring at each other. My mind in already is his bed, his mind is… not where I want it to be, I’m sure.
-Thanks, he gets the cup, you forgot this. And he kisses me. I dive in, following his lead, right there in the doorstep, my hands on his neck, his hands on my hips. He breaks it off, smiles at me. Thanks again, and the door shuts. I just stand there, trying to grasp what just happened. Minutes pass by, excruciating minutes. The door is still closed. Open the door, open the damn door, I almost wish out loud, but nothing happens. Damn vodka, damn olives, damn stupid neighbor. I go down the stairs, one by one, holding the hand rail for balance, for sanity. Ok, little too dramatic. Breath, just breath, tomorrow is a brand new day.
