guess it’s difficult for a woman to understand those writers,’ he said, before I could fathom a response. ‘So you’re not a reader; not a deal breaker.’
Strike two.
I thought about the stack of dog-eared books piled up at the side of my bed but I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t need to defend my library of self-help guides, travel guides and each and every book in the Twilight series to my formerly awesome date. Besides, I’d read Bukowski and Rand and, in my humble opinion, they were books for assholes.
‘It’s not great but,’ he lifted the dregs of his locally brewed beer to his mouth, ‘not a deal breaker.’
Something terrible had happened to the city while I’d been away. Five months in LA and all the eligible men had vanished. That, or I’d become invisible. Or a troll. And since I was literally running my ass off every morning in the ninety-degree heat, it couldn’t be that. I figured they could still smell LA on me. Nothing like some time on the West Coast to poison New York men against you.
I studied Brian Williams from across the tiny cast-iron table on the back patio of Brooklyn Social. Usually I refused to venture out of Manhattan for a first date, but I’d been back for almost a month and it had been slim pickings. He was cute. Tall enough (that is, taller than me in heels), short dark hair, the heavy framed glasses I’d thought were quirky at Erin’s party. Now they just seemed like some awful affectation. They were so non-prescription. This was what happened when you had nothing to say for yourself, I realized, you hid behind props and buzzword authors. Saved a lot of time and effort in becoming a useful human being.
‘So, who do you write for?’ Ten points to me for at least trying. There was a vague, vague, vague chance he was just a little awkward and not a total ass-hat after all. ‘My best friend writes a column for Look magazine.’
‘Look magazine?’ He smiled to himself. ‘Interesting. Well, my writing runs a little deeper.’
Because badmouthing my best friend was a sure-fire way to secure a second date. Strike three.
‘And you’re published?’ I asked with as much innocence as I could muster.
‘Uh, no,’ he was getting less cute by the second. Thirty-five? Really? ‘It’s about the craft, not the reward.’
‘So what do you actually do?’
What I really wanted to say was: ‘Then maybe you should stop introducing yourself as a writer, dickwad.’
‘Right now I’m spending a little time in photography retail.’ He waved his hands around a lot, the sleeves of his vintage Strand bookstore T-shirt rolling up his skinny arms. ‘That’s my other passion. I actually show my work in a real-time gallery, on tumblr. You should check out—’
‘You work in a camera store?’ I translated. ‘And you have a blog?’
He gave me a cool, level stare. Amazing how quickly things could go from great to ‘I’d rather gouge out my own eyes with splintered chopsticks than look at you for one more second.’
‘So what do you do with your spare time?’ He sat back and took a good look at my rack, apparently deciding my boobs made it worth hanging around a little longer. I was regretting my choice of tank top now. ‘And don’t say watch TV because I don’t even have one. Television is a cancer.’
And yet all I could think about was whether or not there would be a Glee rerun on when I got home. In thirty minutes.
‘You know, I’m gonna get a drink.’ I gave him a dazzling smile, pulled my long, loose curls into a ponytail and then let them drop around my shoulders. My best friend Angela referred to this as my signature stripper move, but hey, I might as well give him something to really regret. ‘Can I get you one?’
‘I thought you were never going to ask,’ he said with a smirk. Dates might have been thin on the ground but going Dutch on the first date? More like going douche. And now it was time for me to go home. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Generally speaking, I didn’t like to lie. It was bad for the soul and – way more importantly – it was bad for the complexion, but there was no polite way of saying, ‘Hey pretentious asshole, you’re wasting precious seconds of my life. I need them. Byesies.’ I didn’t care that he worked in a camera store and I certainly didn’t care that he wasn’t a published writer – if you refused to date everyone who had ever put pen to paper but never had their work published, you’d be limiting your dating pool to investment bankers and men without hands. And even the guys without hands probably had some sort of app on their iPad to type for them. Actually, a guy without hands might actually be a better bet than an investment banker these days.
What I cared about was that he was the kind of guy who would always think he was better than you, no matter who you were, what you did or how awesome you were at doing it. I could have told him I was Florence Nightingale and he would have taken issue with the fact I was working with the troops instead of impoverished kids in the projects.
It had been so long since I’d met anyone who, well, wasn’t. I knew it was possible – most of my friends had awesome boyfriends and husbands – but all I seemed to find were the kind of sleazebags who thought they could slap you on the ass on the way to the restroom, or Brian Williamses.
I skipped up the steps out of the garden and sidled through the narrow bar, my heart beating harder with each step I took closer to freedom.
‘Hey!’ I turned around – as did everyone sitting at the bar – to see Brian Williams following behind me. ‘I was just going to change my order – where are you going?’
‘Home,’ I admitted. ‘Order from the bartender.’
Before he could reply, I leapt out of the door and into a passing cab.
Bye Brian Williams.
‘Thirty-Ninth and Lex?’ I asked the driver as I threw myself across the back seat. It wasn’t that I hadn’t come to love Brooklyn, I had. Sort of. Ever since my former roommate and current BFF, Angela, had moved out here, I’d kind of had to. But as soon as the tyres of the taxi hit the Brooklyn Bridge and Manhattan’s skyscrapers twinkled in the twilight, I felt better. It was as if a tightness in my chest eased, like I could breathe again. If only I weren’t headed home alone. Again. I dug my cell phone out of my eye-wateringly beautiful watermelon leather Mulberry Alexa and relaxed.
‘Pick up, Angie.’ I sang into the handset while slipping my foot out of my shoe and turning off the in-taxi TV. Worst invention known to man.
Angela Clark, my best friend and confidante, picked up on the first ring. She had just the right touch of OCD about things like that to make her near perfect. If only she’d had the same OCD about doing the dishes when we’d lived together.
‘Hi, are you OK? Is everything OK?’
There hadn’t been one phone call that didn’t start with that exact same sentence since she moved out a month ago.
‘Everything’s fine.’ I saw the Woolworth Building and knew that it was. ‘Just another bad date.’
‘It’s summer,’ Angela theorized. ‘The heat makes boys crazy.’
‘Maybe.’ I shucked my purple Jimmy Choo mules
