“So on your profile it says you write a blog. There wasn't a link. I mean, I'm not trying to stalk you or anything, but I was curious to know what you write about,” said Jimmy, between bites of his doner kebab. Jimmy just turned 29. His impending mortality, as he liked to call it, stirred in his tall, pudgy frame, a desire to see more things and be seen. To meet more people and see what he could do about finding someone to date for a while. Not one for long term endeavors, he figures cell phone dating apps are right up his alley.
Qisha, wearing her favorite hoop earrings, handmade jewelry and her fun shaped glasses, leans in and with a huge grin on her face exclaims, “How to live in NYC for $5 a day.”
Jimmy stops chewing the steak in his mouth, and blinks in disbelief. Curbing his knee-jerk reaction to lash out, he slowly finishes his bite, swallows and says, “Um, are we not splitting this tab? The steak you're eating is not under $5.”
“Yes of course we are. The whole point of the blog is to teach people we can do things that are usually expensive every once in a while if we are crafty and find a good deal. I have this coupon that gives me $30 if I spend at least $35. I am also getting $10 back from my credit card for using it at this specific restaurant. So, the $31.99 meal is actually $1.99, since this place bakes the tax into the cost of the meal. Which means, I'm actually getting $8.01 to eat here with you. I'll throw six of that to the server and boom. I ate well, had a great conversation with a handsome young man and netted a couple dollars to add to tomorrow as I think I'm done spending today.”
“Oh man. That's amazing. Yeah, I was salty because I thought for sure you were going to change things up and make me pay for everything. I'm sorry I didn't give you the benefit of the doubt. I guess it shows a lack of character on my part.”
Through squinted eyes and major disbelief, Qisha eyes him up and down scrutinizing him looking for any indication he is being facetious.
“That's refreshingly self-aware. That was honest and vulnerable. I'm not sleeping with you.”
“I wasn't trying to...”
Both of them slyly looking away glance back at each other and in unison cheekily say, “tonight, anyway.”
The two share a laugh, finish their meal and head outside. Qisha calls a rideshare care to pick her up.
“Are you going to take the train home? Maybe we could ride together if it's in the same direction? You don't live in one of the outer boroughs, do you?”
Phone in hand, she turns it to show him the app. “No, I'm getting a ride. I like the quiet ride home after a good date to process.”
“Will you let me stand with you? It’s raining, after all.”
“Yeah, okay. You can stand with me on the corner. I see you brought an umbrella.”
Jimmy smiles, remembering his days as a scout where he was reminded to always be prepared. They casually make their way outside and to the corner. The sounds of raindrops on the umbrella sing the only song in the air. They pause in silence. Jimmy looks sweetly at Qisha.
“It was a good date, wasn't it? If you're free next Friday, there's a gallery opening I have a couple tickets to. Maybe we could meet up. Dinner would be included. Even some drinks. Let me know, yeah?”
Qisha smiles and playfully responds, “Ugh, another gallery opening with free food. I mean, yes, obviously I would love to.”
Her phone dings, “Gustavo is here. I'll text you.”
She climbs into the back seat of a compact sedan hybrid. The seats are comfy and there is what looks like a folded towel on the floor board of back seat. There is a charging cable, a cup full of unopened quarter packs of gum and there is a subtle hint of a lovely scent of an air freshener he has hanging from the rear-view mirror. There are also some business cards with a request for a five star rating and a phone number with a message that says, “This number is only active from 1 AM til 5 AM. If you are drunk, call it and I'll get you home for free.”
“Qisha, yes?”
“Yes, I'm Qisha. Hey, I like a nice quiet ride, Gustavo. That cool?”
“Of course! Not another word til you are dropped off.”
The cab of the tiny sedan is filled with silence interrupted only by the occasional ping of a turn signal, the soft admonitions of the navigation app Gustavo is using to guide them to their destination and the soft sounds of quiet breathing. Qisha's mind is racing.
“I like Jimmy. What a good time we had. He didn't seem phased by the blog, and its potential notoriety. He even worked that into a possible second date. This is really putting a kink in my plans for a dating blog and the dangers of cell phone dating apps. Well, it's still early, he has plenty of time to become an ass hole, and when he does, my pen and I will be ready. Though, if he doesn't, how long are we going to date? Seems like a problem for another day.”
The car stops and Gustavo breaks the silence, “We're here. Have a nice evening.”
“Thank you, you too.”
Qisha climbs out of the car and calls Penelope as she makes her way to the front door of her building.
“Hey Quiche. Done with your date already?”
“Yeah. It was going too well. He didn't even flinch when I told him how I was paying for the meal. Like, he was okay with it.”
“That sounds great. Does that affect your plans for your dating blog? By the way, I love the double dipping. One event, content for two blogs.”
“Thanks, Pen! That was the plan. Oh, I got plenty of content. It was great. I just wasn't anticipating actually enjoying the evening. I might not see him again. I don't want to get attached to someone while trying to warn people about the 'Potential Perils of Phones in dating.'”
“Is that the tag line?”
“I'm working on it, but yea, I think that's it.”
“I love it, Quiche.”
“Can you open the door? My keys are at the bottom of my purse and I don't want to get them out, and it’s raining on me.”
“I'm in the bath tub, sooooo.”
“I have a stand-up shower. Are you not at my place?”
“Fuck. I forgot. Yeah, I'll get the door.”
“You bitch.”
“Love you.”
Penelope pushes the buzzer and unlatches the front door. Shortly thereafter, Qisha comes bursting through and feigns a karate chop. Penelope, with a handful of honey roasted peanuts in her hand, flings one at Qisha.
“You don't want none of this. It's been a while but I'm pretty sure I can still pound you. What's that thing your dad always said, 'Nobody rises to the occasion, you just fall back on your training.'”
“How dare you quote my dad to me. How dare you. He also said, 'You shut your mouth when you're talking to me in my house,’” recounted Qisha.
“Rude, besides, that’s only appropriate because we’re in your apartment.”
“Have you eaten? I brought some leftovers from that steak house, which was incredible by the way. I still don't understand why they were running coupons. There are so many other places that are not as good that never run those types of coupons. It's pretty much a free steak. They were like 32 dollars and if you spent at least 30 you got 30 off. I don't get it.”
“Just some nuts, but I don't really like leftovers, so no thanks.”
“Now who's being rude?”
“I'm not being rude, I just don't want to eat your old food.”
“Old? How long did you think it was going to take me to get home? It was cooked like an hour or two ago and that's it.”
“You know what I mean. Ugh, peer pressure. Well, I don't like microwaves. I never use them.”
“Is this your first time in my apartment? I don't even have a microwave. You Know that. Every time we make popcorn we have to do it on the stove. Did you think I just cooked it that way for fun?” chided Qisha.
“Look, I ate already! I'm sorry. I ate your pie. I didn't even have a particularly bad day. I just really wanted something sweet and there was half a pie in there and it looked good and it was really, really good and I ate it and then I ate some honey roasted peanuts because obviously I hadn't consumed enough sweets and then you came home and startled me and I haven't finished cleaning up the consumed pie and I wanted to stall you.”
“Take a deep breath. First of all, fuck you. Second of all, it's cool. I didn't pay for it, obviously, but I was really looking forward to trying some. Is there any left? Third of all, fuck you again for trying to stall me. What's going on with you?”
“I don't know. I get these bouts where I am famished out of the blue or I really want some sweets or I'm angry or confused or the weirdest one, I am hyper focused. Like, I remember things that don't seem super important at that moment but then they pop up all Baader Meinhoffy. It's weird. It's only been happening since September of last year though, so it's a pretty recent thing.”
“Dang, Penny. Have you been to a doctor or an exorcist or maybe a crystal guide. I might have some essential oils you can rub on it. Think that'll help?”
Penelope glares angrily at Qisha. She is standing in the big room of the tiny 1.5 bedroom apartment, which is pretty large by most NYC apartment standards, with a bookshelf on her right and a mounted TV and a wall covered in pieces of art. Qisha, an avid gallery goer, finagles small pieces from the showing artists on a consistent basis and has amassed a large collection. They are hung on a single wall in the apartment. The pieces vary in size from playing card sized paper-thin pieces of wood with Eastern Asian landscapes laser etched into both sides. The excess pieces are leaning against the art wall organized from largest to smallest cascading away from the wall to the center of the room.
“Look, I'm sure I'm fine. Besides, I really don't have time for this to be anything at all.”