The Encounters

Jack and I matched on Faya. His first message was an invitation to the Dupont Circle High Heel Race — he’d be sitting at the finish line because one of the restaurants he owns is there. Prime real estate for one of the District’s best iykyk events, and yet, the ask felt anything but exclusive.

Generic.
Obtuse.
The kind of message you send to five other girls and wait to see who shows up.

I didn’t respond.

He followed up, suggesting a proper date.

I didn’t respond to that either.

Then he tried once more.

Eventually, I said yes. For me, curiosity has always outperformed restraint.

His Faya profile was restrained to the point of confidence. Or laziness. Hard to say.

Forty-one. Restaurateur. Never married. In his headshot, I clocked the bar, the muscles in his suit jacket, and had a quick thought about him using those muscles to lift me onto that bar. My mind took care of the rest.

The photos were dimly lit and international in a way that suggested he owned more coats than houseplants. One looked like it had been taken in London. Another might have been New York. None of them were trying very hard.

The First Date

We met at the Lion Hotel, a former church converted into a hotel with ceilings so high and lighting so dim it felt vaguely ecclesiastical. An artist I once dated had gotten married there, and for a long time I refused to go back. In hindsight, where his first marriage took place was the the least relevant detail when it came to him and other women.

I arrived six minutes late and took a seat at the bar. He arrived twelve minutes late, which meant he technically kept me waiting for six. I felt a flicker of irritation about his lateness, then remembered something my friend’s husband had told me in Aspen the week prior;

“Be less offended” he said, plainly.
“Men are offensive by nature. The less you react, the further you get.”

Ugh. I let it go.

Then he appeared behind me the way good servers do in serious restaurants—close enough to be felt, not enough to startle. He leaned in just enough that his mouth was near my ear.

“Room for one more?” he whispered.

“I think we can make that work.” I said with a wink.

I have a lot of hair—the kind my friends accuse of being assisted. He, by contrast, was operating on a visible timeline. Yet, somehow, he was better looking than his photos. He had the quiet sexiness-teetering-on-douchiness that only a former D3 lacrosse player can achieve. It turns out my suspicions were correct — he played for Boston College from ‘04-’08. Originally from Austin, with a long stint in LA.

“I was already having a stressful day,” he said, shaking his head slightly, as if burdened by circumstance. “Only to discover I’ve kept a beautiful woman waiting.”

He paused, letting it land.

“A tragedy, really.”

More Where That Came From

I ordered a mezcal Negroni. He ordered an Old Fashioned. I like mezcal Negronis because they read cool, which is embarrassing to admit, but true. I first had one three years earlier at an underground speakeasy in Mexico City, and I’ve been dining out on that information ever since.

He had one of those voices that makes you listen whether you want to or not. He also had that California habit of pausing before he answered a question — a thoughtful, measured beat that East Coast people don’t really do. We tend to speak first and refine later.

He was chummy with the bartenders, too. Familiar without being performative. Most of the attorneys I date are too burnt out to make eye contact, let alone learn a name. I liked that he did both.

I took a sip of my drink and decided the night had potential.