My glass is empty. I catch the bartender’s eye and point. She gives me a curt nod.
“Another seltzer?” she says, taking my empty glass.
I press a twenty across the sticky bar and her demeanor changes palpably. She works for tips after all, and I’m taking up valuable real estate for a soda water drinker.
“Thanks,” I say when she hustles my drink back, this time with a generous twist of lime.
My second Torch hookup was with Bryce, a yogi and a meditation instructor. He was—very flexible. We went to a vegan place in SoHo and spent the night together in his minimalist Williamsburg loft. He called once, twice, three times.
I feel a connection, he said in this text.
I didn’t.
I’m ashamed to say I never even answered him. Jax assured me that this was the way of it. People expected to never hear from each other again.
Look at it this way, said Jax. You’ve gotten more action in two weeks than you have in two years.
Sadly, she’s right.
Another glance at the door, which is disappearing in the growing crowd. Really. I’m gonna go.
Tonight, I’m waiting for Adam. A technology expert with a penchant for Rilke and Jung.
This guy? said Jax in dismay.
True, the grainy picture on the screen was not flattering—heavy brow, nose too big. The text was minimal to the point of being curt. Dislikes: shallow people. Likes: solitude. Personal mantra: Everything in NYC is within walking distance if you have enough time. Closing with: “You are not surprised at the force of the storm.” Only a Rilke geek would know that line and what it meant. It hooked me in a way the others hadn’t.
Who are you, Adam? I’m more interested in seeing you in the flesh than I should be.
But maybe you’re not coming. It’s still five minutes before our scheduled time, but probably I’m about to be stood up.
I text Jax: This is the last time.
Is he a dick? It seemed like he would be a dick. You can usually tell.
Hasn’t shown up yet.
How early were you?
A half hour.
I am treated to the eye roll emoji. Just chill. You never know. Have another seltzer, you lush.
I’m about to text her back when the door opens.
There you are. I know you right away.
There’s a strange clench in my solar plexus at the sight of your face. A rush of recognition. From the photo I saw, yes. But something else. You’re taller than most of the men in the room, broad, muscular, in a charcoal blazer over a dove-gray T-shirt. Standing a moment, looking uncertain, you run a large hand through the thick mane of nearly shoulder length, jet-black hair.
He’s here, I text Jax quickly. Gtg.
Is he hot?
Are you? Hard to say. Your nose is too big, eyes weirdly black at a distance. When you scan the room, your gaze meets mine. I smile but don’t wave. Maybe not hot in the classic sense. But something that has been dormant within me awakens.
That moment, it freezes. Everything around us pauses, seems to wait a beat. I feel my breath in my lungs as you push toward me through the crowd.
Just as you reach me, the guy in the next seat miraculously leaves and there’s a space for you to slip right into it, and you do.
I like your smile; it’s a little lopsided, sweet.
“Beauty and the beast,” you say, by way of introduction.
I blush stupidly. “Adam?”
We shake hands. Your grip is warm and solid, gaze intense.
“Nice to meet you, Wren.” Your voice is deep, almost a rumble. Then, after a quick assessing glance around the bar, “Is this the kind of place you usually like?”
There’s a gleam of amusement, mischief in your eyes.
It’s weird. You’re so familiar, as though I’ve known you for years. A light clean scent wafts off you, the late autumn chill from outside still lingering on your clothes.
“No,” I admit.
“Then why choose it?” It could be confrontational, peevish. Instead, it’s purely curious.
“I didn’t. My best friend Jax—she thought it was a safe place to meet a stranger.”
Your eyes linger, searching my face for I’m not sure what. Then, “Is there a safe place to meet a stranger?”
“Maybe not.”
Your smile deepens, and you lift an easy hand. The bartender rushes to do your bidding, coming quickly from the other end of the bar; you’re that kind of guy I think. A natural air of authority. People rush to do your bidding. You order a Woodford Reserve on the rocks, then look to me, inquiring. I shake my head, lifting my glass.
“But we’re not strangers, are we?” you say when the bartender has left.