Guys these days are so charming that I can hardly stand it.
Colin grabs another chicken wing like his life depends on it before pulling the meat from the bone and shoving it in his mouth. Before I can answer, he keeps talking, his mouth full of dead bird.
“So tell me more about this . . . what? Art shit, you said?”
His brow crinkles, as though the task of recalling the few details I’ve ponied up about my life so far is about to give him a stroke.
“You’re really into that stuff, huh? Old movies? My mom can’t get enough of them. I don’t know what she sees in those old dudes, though. Cary Grant? I mean, that stuff’s from the dark ages. TV is where it’s at. Have you seen Ballers? Now that’s a great fucking show . . . Oh shit!” he yells out, jumping to his feet like he’s been electrocuted, and his hip knocks into the table upending his entire glass of beer . . . in my lap.
Talk about a cold shower. I grab a pile of napkins off the table and start dabbing at my dress. This is definitely my cue to hightail it the hell out of here before something even worse happens. And let’s be brutally honest: I’m pretty much lonely and horny enough that three more chardonnays might wind up with me being poked and prodded like another juicy wing by the end of the night.
“Great to meet you, Colin,” I say sweetly, my cheeks hurting from the fake smile plastered across my face. I push my chair back from the table, the peanut shells littering the bar floor crunching beneath my heels. Colin may not have a romantic bone in his impressively-toned body, but there is no way in hell that I’m even going to consider hooking up with a guy who dares to blaspheme Cary Grant in my presence.
After all, a girl has to have standards.
A look of confusion flits across his face. “Wait . . . you’re leaving? But the game’s not over yet!”
Oh, it’s definitely over. “Yeah, I’m sorry,” I say, “but I have to get up early for work tomorrow. Let me know how it ends?”
“Sure,” he says slowly. “And maybe we can do this again sometime?” He cocks his head to the side and gives me an earnest smile, as if he has no idea that I can’t wait to get the hell out of there. “I mean, this was fun, right?”
Oh sure. Like going to the dentist is fun. Like being trapped in a Turkish prison is fun . . .
I don’t answer, turn around, and keep walking until I’m out the door. Miraculously, my Uber arrives almost right away and soon I’m slumped in the backseat, watching the twinkling lights of the Brooklyn Bridge flash by outside the window as we cross over the water from Manhattan.
The worst part is, I’d give that date a six. I mean, compared to the disasters I’ve been on, he’s practically a knight in shining armor. Remembered my name? Check. All his own hair? Check. Didn’t paw me in the coat-check line? Give this guy a medal and call it true love.
God, I’ve been dating in this town way too long.
At least New York will always make me feel better, even after the worst of bad dates—and I’ve definitely had my share lately. I try not to think about my track record until I’m home and can pour myself another glass of wine from an open bottle in the fridge and sink down into the couch, pulling my red heels off and throwing them across the room. It’s not like they have far to go because my apartment is literally the size of a shoe box. A charming shoe box with exposed brick walls, windows overlooking Prospect Park, and a fire escape where I leave bowls of food for the neighbor’s white Persian kitty (that I am slowly in the process of catnapping).
Everyone has to have a hobby, right?
But hey, it could be a lot worse. At least I don’t have a roommate—or five.
Before I moved to Brooklyn from Toledo, Ohio, where I grew up, I pictured my first apartment as this charming, bohemian space where I’d store my Manolos in the oven a la Carrie Bradshaw and host glamorous parties like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
But Manolos are hard to come by on an assistant curator’s salary, even at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In fact, I’ve yet to have a single person over, much less an excuse to throw any kind of wild, Hepburn-esque soiree where people pass out face down on the floor while yelling “Timber!” Ever since the breakup with Todd, aka the man I thought was the love of my life, I’ve been too dejected and heartbroken to do much dating at all—until recently, that is.
And just look how that’s turning out.
I reach over and grab my laptop off the floor and pull up Facebook, feeling better as I click to video message and the image of my sister, Jess, appears on the screen, looking none of her thirty-five years, with what looks like oatmeal smeared across one cheek.
Even though she still basically resembles a college student (Botox), she always seems completely stressed out, which is not exactly surprising considering the fact that she’s raising two toddlers, Amelia, fourteen months (light of my life), and Jackson, three (devil’s spawn), while trying to start her own internet business selling coffee mugs with the hashtags #Blessed and #Basic printed on them. When I asked her what she wanted for her birthday this year, she told me, “I want to check into a hotel for the night, order room service, and eat French fries while watching reality TV until I’m fucking comatose. Then I want to sleep for sixteen hours.”
Motherhood is a joy.
“Lizzie, babe, what’s up?” she asks.
“Oh my god,” I say, reaching over and taking a sip of my wine, then pulling my legs beneath me so I can sit cross legged. “I just had the worst date ever.”
Jess reaches one arm off screen, presumably to shove some goopy homemade concoction in Amelia’s mouth, a smile twitching at the corner of her lips. “Ooh. Details. Gimme.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Please. I spent my day inventing elaborate fairytales to make my kids take their antibiotics. Remind me what adults even do, please.”
“Watch a stranger devour hot wings in a crappy sports bar while completely ignoring their date?”
“Ouch,” she winces, before her attention is yanked away. “Jackson! We don’t strangle the dog!”
“Why are the kids still up?” I ask, fully aware that my sister hates to be off schedule. She runs her house like a military base—or a high-end prison.
“Don’t ask,” she sighs as she holds out a spoon to my niece. “Richard’s working late and my night just went to shit. Amelia, open your mouth, sweetie,” Jess coos before turning back to the screen with an exasperated look. “Why does she hate pureed parsnips,” she mutters in exasperation, mostly to herself, “and why do you waste your time with these losers anyway?”