The hostess sat us down at a table near the bar area right after we arrived. As the waitress brought us our margs and guac, J updated us on work and her time back at home. J, as usual, reported she busily accomplished more in the last few weeks than most do in a lifetime. Always entertaining and inspiring, her drive and persistence will surely qualify her to run the world some day. I cannot wait to see what she does with the White House, and not just with her interior decorating skills. Scraping the bottom of the guacamole bowl, K and I filled her in on our own developments at work, and I shared some stories from my recent trip. At that point in my life, I gave my number to basically anyone who asked, and I'd been on a bunch of good dates recently with one guy in particular. I caught the girls up on his credentials and those dates. It was nothing serious yet, but he seemed like a good guy, and I was hopeful this was going somewhere. During that time, I noticed a couple walk past our table heading to their own. I made eye contact with the guy, mentally noting how cute he was, but disappointed (as usual) that he had a girlfriend.
I headed to the bathroom downstairs while we waited for the waitress to run our credit cards, and when I returned to the table, we were ready to leave. Exiting first, I saw the guy from earlier leaning against the wall outside of the restaurant, smoking a cigarette. "Hello," he said to me in a brogue. "You're stunning. What's your name?" I've notoriously been hit on at places ranging from happy hours to funerals, so while flattered, I wasn't totally surprised at this move. The universe never ceases to amaze me, after all. I told him my name, and he made sure to let me know that the girl inside the restaurant was a friend from home. J started asking him more about where in Ireland he was from, since she studied abroad in Dublin. They were really chatting away, and since I wanted to get to another bar to meet other friends, I interrupted them: "So do you want my number?" He said of course he did, took out his phone, and saved my number. He texted me two days later asking if I wanted to meet him for drinks that weekend. It happened to be my birthday weekend, so I told him I had plans, but could meet the weekend after that.
Two weeks after we first met, I went to meet him for drinks in the East Village. The polar opposite of two weeks prior, snow fell all day long, turning the sidewalks into a slushy mess. I decided to wear flat boots with a sweater dress (instead of my usual first date outfit of pumps with a wrap dress) under my North Face
It was the first time I was running behind on my way to a date, and texted him saying I would be late. He jokingly tsk tsk-ed me, but told me to take my time. I walked into the bar, slightly concerned I wouldn't recognize him, but immediately felt at ease when he turned to say hello. By the time I saddled up in the bar stool, it was 8:45. He already had a drink, and the overwhelming beer menu intimidated me. When he said he was drinking Bud Lights, though, I followed suit. Phew.
Before I knew it, the bartender was kicking us out. We'd successfully chatted the night away, ordering a bar pie when we inevitably got hungry, and at some point, he went in for a kiss that made everyone in the bar disappear. We stumbled out into the street, searching for a place nearby so he could get more cigarettes. After some debate about what to do next, a taxi took us back to my apartment for a fully-clothed adult sleepover. He stayed the next day until I left for yoga at 4:45 that afternoon. During that time, we'd both received worried text messages and phone calls from our friends asking if we were still alive. We walked together toward my gym and the train he was taking back to the Bronx, and kissed goodbye. When I checked my phone after yoga, a text reiterating how much fun he'd had greeted me, and we made plans to see each other again the following Friday. Several wonderful dates later turned into dating for the rest of that year.
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