Double date at The Spaniard. They pitched him for his jawline and that was enough to get me out of the house.
Italian food in Midtown. He orders everything gluten-free, even his own food. “In case you want to try it,” he says. We hold hands on the couch, bloated with noodles. Too bloated to makeout.
Birthday party at Socialista. Open bar. Rich men with their teenage daughters--or girlfriends.
After-party at his apartment. Only thing in his fridge is frozen spinach. Could be a serial killer, or vegan. We sing happy birthday in the dark and he blows out a coffee table candle. I tell him I’m not going to fuck him because I’m too tired.
Duane Reade for a bag of fruit snacks. He tells me there’s a lot of Blue 40 in there. “That’s what makes it good,” I say. He asks if I’m going to eat the whole thing. I do.
Triple date in Red Hook. The crab place has a long line, so we get ceviche. The men talk commodities. The women talk not commodities. Still hungry as ceviche isn’t real food. He’s definitely vegan.
He invites me to Miami. I say no. There’s no Duane Reade in Miami.
Photo By: Kelly Balch
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