There you were—blond, tall, and uniquely handsome, standing perfectly on the corner of Greenwich and Eleventh Street. Our first meeting went as one would want every Bumble meeting to. The perfect, not-so-awkward hug. I remember you ushering me through the door of the bar so effortlessly I thought to myself, “Maybe this could be something.
We found the perfect spot on the side of the bar. We were next to a secret stairway that led to, I’m assuming, the bar’s not-so-secret hideaway. We stayed downstairs, but it was the perfect conversation starter as we watched the usual and the unusual glide up and down the stairs.
Yet, we didn’t need the stairway to heaven to help us talk. The conversation just flowed out of us. We both opened up ever so slightly with each sip of our beer. You drank what I drank, and I was drinking one too many Stella’s, which I think were even catching up with you.
As we both stumbled over our mutual love of football (English football, that is), music, the city, and only the charming parts of our past, we both realized this was going unnervingly well.
—
After you paid the bill, you took full advantage of our near proximity to the Hudson River. We were drunk and happy, leaning on each other for balance as you kept saying for me to walk with you to the subway. I remained gullible, only knowing in the little pocket of my rational mind that we were walking in the opposite direction of any form of transportation that would take us away from this perfect Bumble evening.
Nearing a Thursday midnight, the streets were almost bare. We found a spot on the edge of the railing by the river, looking toward the lights of New Jersey. We talked at nearly a whisper as if we would wake up all of New York. I slowly spun around to face you. Though, even in my heels, I only reached your chest. Our eyes met, and we finally had our first kiss under the city lights.
But suddenly, something didn’t feel right.
Everything that was perfect faded away.
I sobered up slightly, kissing you blindly . . . You were a terrible kisser. It was almost as if I were kissing a bird. I paused. You kept on kissing.
I thought to myself, “Okay, this isn’t the worst thing. I can teach him. Men are teachable. It’s fine; this is fine.” Wait, what was I saying! Women don’t teach men. We don’t have time to teach. We are independent women! “How could you stoop that low. He can’t help the way he kisses. Be nice!”
The kissing stopped. You seemed happy, so I smiled that reassuring smile to show I felt the same. As a woman, you master the white lie smile. I casually explained I had to be up early for work tomorrow. You ushered me to a cab; I drove away as you watched, and I saw you fade into the city lights.
That same old question came to mind, “Will I ever see you again?
Excerpt from The City of Dating: A Memoir by Stevie Bowen, Chapter 8, Dear Mr. Bumble.
The City of Dating is available from Amazon.
