A while back, I wrote a post influenced by a Modern Love column and a book with an excellent title. The post chronicled a series of dates with just a sentence or two apiece. It’s amazing how easy it is to forget two hours of stranger talk the minute you walk out the door.
Ate tacos with a teddy bear of a guy who distributed beer in Chicago for a Brooklyn brewery. As a parting gift, he gave me two bottles of a new line out of the trunk of his car.
Bearded lumberjack in red flannel and a newsboy who had just moved to Chicago. Worked as a developer for one of the Chicago papers.
He was 22, but I went with it because,… well, why not? Spent most of college commuting to Chicago for school so he could take care of his grandmother in Indiana. Lots of tattoos, spoke with a lisp, reminded me several times that he had lots of older friends.
An extremely attractive Indian-American doctor who worked 90 hours a week and was mostly fascinated by the story of my parents’ relationship. “I’ve always been fascinated by divorce,” he said.
A 34-year-old graphic designer raised by his mom and two sisters. He didn’t drink at dinner because he was training for a muy thai fight that weekend.
Thai lunch with a 33-year-old guy two weeks before he moved back to Los Angeles. We mostly talked about his multi-racial “Benetton ad” family and Chicago segregation.
Two dates with a short contractor with the same name as my dad. Too bad I wasn’t feeling it, the third date was going to be pumpkin carving.
Three dates with a 36-year-old divorced trader. Well, three dates if you count the beer we had at the airport after meeting on the orange line. He wore a lot of jewelry and all his Facebook photos were of him skiing.
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