more pleasant option. But I force myself to dive in.”
“To what?”
“The couple’s relationship. I explore the hidden crevices with a flashlight and a magnifying glass. Then I resurface with a sort-of prose sonar report, revealing the contours of their emotional bond.” I didn’t mention that I feared it was a substitute for forming my own.
“You must write about couples who have been together a long time.”
“Not always,” I said, looking deep into her vibrant aquamarine eyes. “A few weeks ago, I talked to a couple who met at camp when they were seven. He pushed her out of a canoe, and she had the preternatural wisdom to know that was a sign of affection. But the week before that was a couple who had known each other only six months.”
“Haveyou talked to people who broke up and got back together?” Something about the question seemed a little rehearsed.
“Sure,” I said.
“Do they end up okay?”
Did she think I was a reporter or a fortune-teller?
“I can’t really speak with any authority about what happens after the wedding reception.”
She mulled that silently for a few moments. “Have you ever been married?”
Not my first-choice topic for first dates.
“No,” I said, knowing what that sounded like coming from the mouth of a man my age.
“Have you lived with anyone?” was her next question.
I preferred when we were discussing restaurants I’d never eaten at. “Not in a formal kind of way,” I answered, picturing Laurel in my bathrobe, drinking green tea from a Knicks coffee mug and working on the Sunday crossword puzzle. I expunged the image from my memory. “How about you?” I asked, more out of obligation than an active desire to know the details of her dating history.
“Pretty much the same,” she said. “Never married. Though I had an on-again, off-again relationship with an investment banker for almost five years.” She was trying to sound casual about it, but she wasn’t entirely succeeding.
“Did you live together?” I asked.
She looked down at the table. “I’m supposed to move into his place tomorrow.”
It was my turn to say “Oh.”
“Or that’s the plan. He’s been pushing to move forward, and I’ve been very unsure. We’ve been back and forth so many times, and we haven’t even been living in the same city for more thana few months. It’s so easy to do something for the wrong reasons. Because you’re scared. Because you’re getting older. Because you don’t want to make the effort to find someone new.”
I nodded, wondering whether it was too late to cancel my sashimi.
“When you asked me out, I wasn’t sure what to say, but I decided this is exactly what I needed. A chance to find out if there’s someone else out there for me. Someone smart, sophisticated and successful.”
That sounded more promising. I was ready to jump ship too soon. I was still getting this bee thing down.
“The truth is, I was dreading having the movers show up tomorrow,” she said. “I feel so much better about it now. I really owe you.”
The bill for dinner: $190. The emotional cost: immeasurable. As I walked home, I replayed the sequence of events in my head, wondering where I went wrong.
There was only one person to ask: Mike. After apologizing for calling so late, I launched into my tale of woe.
“A year ago,” he said, “I hired one of the top marketing firms in the city to help me do a survey of what men and women look for in a mate.” I wasn’t even remotely interested in his survey. “What my research showed—which was quoted on
Oprah
—was that for men, the number-one concern was looks and the next was personality. For women, number one was financial success—”
“Meaning?” I asked, cutting him off.
“You need to date less-attractive women or start earning more money.”
Chapter Twelve
Buzzkill
I dreamt I was getting married at Nobu.
I stood beneath a canopy of sashimi in front of a geriatric rabbi in an Elvis outfit, and a
“To what?”
“The couple’s relationship. I explore the hidden crevices with a flashlight and a magnifying glass. Then I resurface with a sort-of prose sonar report, revealing the contours of their emotional bond.” I didn’t mention that I feared it was a substitute for forming my own.
“You must write about couples who have been together a long time.”
“Not always,” I said, looking deep into her vibrant aquamarine eyes. “A few weeks ago, I talked to a couple who met at camp when they were seven. He pushed her out of a canoe, and she had the preternatural wisdom to know that was a sign of affection. But the week before that was a couple who had known each other only six months.”
“Haveyou talked to people who broke up and got back together?” Something about the question seemed a little rehearsed.
“Sure,” I said.
“Do they end up okay?”
Did she think I was a reporter or a fortune-teller?
“I can’t really speak with any authority about what happens after the wedding reception.”
She mulled that silently for a few moments. “Have you ever been married?”
Not my first-choice topic for first dates.
“No,” I said, knowing what that sounded like coming from the mouth of a man my age.
“Have you lived with anyone?” was her next question.
I preferred when we were discussing restaurants I’d never eaten at. “Not in a formal kind of way,” I answered, picturing Laurel in my bathrobe, drinking green tea from a Knicks coffee mug and working on the Sunday crossword puzzle. I expunged the image from my memory. “How about you?” I asked, more out of obligation than an active desire to know the details of her dating history.
“Pretty much the same,” she said. “Never married. Though I had an on-again, off-again relationship with an investment banker for almost five years.” She was trying to sound casual about it, but she wasn’t entirely succeeding.
“Did you live together?” I asked.
She looked down at the table. “I’m supposed to move into his place tomorrow.”
It was my turn to say “Oh.”
“Or that’s the plan. He’s been pushing to move forward, and I’ve been very unsure. We’ve been back and forth so many times, and we haven’t even been living in the same city for more thana few months. It’s so easy to do something for the wrong reasons. Because you’re scared. Because you’re getting older. Because you don’t want to make the effort to find someone new.”
I nodded, wondering whether it was too late to cancel my sashimi.
“When you asked me out, I wasn’t sure what to say, but I decided this is exactly what I needed. A chance to find out if there’s someone else out there for me. Someone smart, sophisticated and successful.”
That sounded more promising. I was ready to jump ship too soon. I was still getting this bee thing down.
“The truth is, I was dreading having the movers show up tomorrow,” she said. “I feel so much better about it now. I really owe you.”
The bill for dinner: $190. The emotional cost: immeasurable. As I walked home, I replayed the sequence of events in my head, wondering where I went wrong.
There was only one person to ask: Mike. After apologizing for calling so late, I launched into my tale of woe.
“A year ago,” he said, “I hired one of the top marketing firms in the city to help me do a survey of what men and women look for in a mate.” I wasn’t even remotely interested in his survey. “What my research showed—which was quoted on
Oprah
—was that for men, the number-one concern was looks and the next was personality. For women, number one was financial success—”
“Meaning?” I asked, cutting him off.
“You need to date less-attractive women or start earning more money.”
Chapter Twelve
Buzzkill
I dreamt I was getting married at Nobu.
I stood beneath a canopy of sashimi in front of a geriatric rabbi in an Elvis outfit, and a
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