Match Made in Manhattan

by Amanda Stauffer

  “Nope. You find it,” Cassie says.

  Nicole looks skeptical. “I don’t think you can expect that sizzle or intensity to remain forever. It’s got to evolve into a different, deeper kind of love at some point, right?”

  John calls a few days later, and I let it go to voice mail. I decide to text him and spare him an awkward conversation.

  February 6 at 9:07 p.m.

  ALISON:

  THANKS FOR THE VOICE MAIL. I REALLY THINK YOU’RE FABULOUS. TRULY. BUT I’M NOT SURE I SEE A FUTURE. SO . . . FRIENDS?

  A few weeks later I receive the following text from him:

  February 27 at 10:11 p.m.

  JOHN:

  WHICH BLIND PIG ARE YOU AT?

  Followed by:

  JOHN:

  OOPS, SORRY THAT WASN’T MEANT FOR YOU. HOW ARE THINGS?

  I never understood the logic behind the random late-night mis-texts. Is the assumption that, although I wasn’t interested before, a random “hello” faux-intended for someone else will make me realize how much I miss him? That it will rekindle a flame that wasn’t really there before? Or make me jealous and spur me to write back, “OH, HA! NO WORRIES. SO . . . DO YOU WANT TO MEET UP AT THE BLIND PIG? THE ONE, THE ONLY ONE, NEAR UNION SQUARE?” Men are strange.

  The Evolution of the Pants Speech: Tom

  The first person I dated after my college relationship ended was Tom. Tom had politely but doggedly courted me for years. Throughout the duration of the courtship, we managed to remain friends. We sat next to each other in history classes, studied together occasionally, and cooked dinners together two or three times per semester. And without fail, every September, the first week back on campus, Tom would phone me and ask how my summer was. How was my internship? Did I get to fit in any travels? Was I still dating my college boyfriend? And every September when I’d say that I was, he’d make some weak but kind attempt at a joke about how you can’t blame a guy for trying and how we should meet up for dinner once class schedules were finalized and we were settled in.

  So when I was suddenly single at the end of senior year, I suspected Tom wouldn’t wait too long to call. My phone rang within the week. We cooked another dinner, met up for drinks at a local bar, jogged through East Rock Park on a Sunday morning, suffered through A History of Violence’s painfully long sex scenes while holding hands on his couch, and generally enjoyed each other’s company as more than just friends. After a campus party one night, we wound up back in my house, making out.

  “So. I don’t want to . . . make you uncomfortable or anything, but . . . are we going to have sex tonight?” Tom asked.

  I laughed out loud. And then I realized he was serious. I pointed to my shirt (fully buttoned) and my pants (fully zipped). “Does it look like we’re going to have sex tonight?” I asked, hoping to make light of the awkward question.

  “Well. I just . . . If not tonight, when?”

  I paused to envisage the timeline. “We’re graduating. Soon-ish. Like in a month. And then you’re moving to London and I’m moving to . . . somewhere. Probably New York. But not London . . .” my voice trailed off. But since he said nothing, I pressed on. “So, I like you. I do. But I don’t think we have enough time for this to get serious enough for me to . . .” He waited for me to finish my sentence, though I was kind of hoping he’d jump in with some understanding to spare me of this awkward dance. “Sleep with you.”

  “Ever?”

  “Well, not in the near future?”

  “So. You’re never going to sleep with me.”

  “I mean. Not never? But not between now and . . . when you move to London?”

  “So never.”

  I furrowed my eyebrows.

  “I’m sorry. I like you. But if this isn’t going to lead to . . . that kind of relationship . . . then I don’t really see the point in continuing.”

  I furrowed my eyebrows further.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “I’m thinking I want to elbow you in the rib cage. Really hard.”

  He chuckled awkwardly. And we sat in silence.

  And then I wondered aloud, “I’m sorry if what I’m about to say comes off as . . . heady or arrogant . . . but . . . you pursued me for . . . years. And now that we’re finally . . . dating, or whatever . . . you’re going to throw it away just because I won’t sleep with you? When we’ve only been seeing each other for one or two weeks?”

  “Well,” he sighed. “I just think that . . . to me, sleeping together is an essential part of a relationship. And if you’re not ready for that, then . . . yeah, I guess I don’t want to pursue this any further.”

  “All those years,” I sulked. “Just for a quick lay?” I punched him in the bicep. Then I pouted. “You’re a jerk.”

  If I learned one lesson from Tom, it was that no matter what signal you think you’re sending out, it can, and probably will, get misinterpreted by the male species. People see what they want to see, and hear what they want to hear. It wasn’t that I was afraid of the physical aspects of relationships; Scott and I had shared a bed for years—three and a half years to be exact. It was just that unlike some of my college friends, whose “numbers” were well into the double digits—one housemate even broke one hundred, which she proudly declared made her a member of “the union”—I didn’t want to be intimate with someone unless we were actually in a relationship. I didn’t share my intimate thoughts and secrets with everyone—those were reserved for the Cassies in my life; similarly, I wasn’t going to engage in the most intimate aspects of a physical relationship unless the relationship was a committed one.

  However, this line of thinking tends to be a buzzkill for men. So after the Tom debacle, I decided best practice was to be as direct as possible, and to avoid any awkward conversations in the bedroom. Hence, the Pants Speech:

  If ever I enter an apartment under romantic pretenses or invite someone into mine, I always pause at the front door and make a point of stating, “I like spending time with you, and I’d like to continue hanging out tonight, but before we go inside, I need you to know that you’re not getting in my pants tonight.”

  If a long pause ensues, I might follow up with, “If you want to go home, or if you want me to go home, that’s cool. No hard feelings. But . . . no pants tonight.”

  I never thought this conversation was a big deal. I still don’t think it’s a big deal. And I’ve never had anyone since Tom say they’d rather go home.

  My friends, however, think this speech is utterly hilarious. Once, Jason had a group of his coworkers over at his apartment. One of them was asking me about my dating life, in a friendly, platonic way. We got to chatting, and you could see the Eureka! moment cross his face as he exclaimed, “You’re the Pants Speech Girl!” At first I was baffled because I’d never heard it referred to that way before. But then I realized what he meant and admitted that yes, I am the Pants Speech Girl. And thus my doorstep dating ritual acquired its formal title.

  COboarderPN: Pantsless Paul

  February 2 at 3:27 a.m.

  Hi,

  This website tells me that we live half a mile apart. I just moved to the Upper East Side four months ago and, thanks to work, I haven’t had a moment to explore it beyond Central Park. Not that I’m knocking Central Park. But there’s this annoying trade-off that comes with trying to keep your job to pay off loans – you don’t actually get to experience the city you’re paying sky-high rent to live in. So, all the excitement of my life aside, what pointers can you give me? Top running routes in our ’hood? You seem like the right person to ask this of.

  Also, doesn’t the city designate dozens of landmarks every year – I would think the steady stream of new designations must mean you’re never short on work?

  Talk soon,

  Paul

  P.S. That’s a pretty rad yellow harness you’ve got.

  I can’t decide if he’s attractive or not. A fine-enough introductory email, and his profile says he has post-college education, w
hich is a plus. But he just doesn’t look cute to me. His eyes look a little on the small side. And he’s short.

  “Five-foot-nine is not that short!” my mom argues.

  “No, but, it’s short to me.”

  “You’re not an Amazon yourself, you know. Dad’s five-nine.”

  “I know, but maybe if he were cute I could overlook the height thing. But that, and his face . . . it’s just . . . I don’t think so.”

  “Can I see his pictures? Show me his pictures.”

  Over the phone, I walk my mom through the log-in process. She signs in as me, and I can hear her typing as she enters his username into the search box.

  “Wait. You’re kidding, right?” she asks. “Ali, he is really attractive.”

  “No . . . I don’t think so.”

  “COboarderPN? No, he is. Look at the cell phone photo of him in the bathroom mirror.”

  “That’s exactly the photo that made me think he wasn’t cute in the first place!”

  “No,” she insists. “I promise you, he’s very attractive.”

  “Well . . . not to me.”

  “No, he is objectively attractive.”

  “There is no such thing. And also, I really don’t think so.”

  “I’ve never told you that you should or should not go out with someone—”

  “What are you talking about? You tell me all the time that I shouldn’t bother going out with certain guys. Or that I should break up with Dave. Or—”

  “We’re getting off topic. Fine. I’ve never told you you should go out with someone. But you should go out with him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he has an advanced degree, and he sounds thoughtful and sincere in his profile, and he’s the right age,” (the right age in this case being thirty-two) “and he’s totally adorable.”

  “Adorable to you.”

  “Which means he’ll be adorable to you.”

  “Ha!”

  “We never disagree. You almost always agree with me on who’s cute—celebrities, contestants on The Bachelor, men from your college class . . .”

  “Fine, fine, fine. Yes, we almost always agree. Except this time, you’re wrong.”

  “Give me the benefit of the doubt. One date. Just go on one date.”

  “If he even asks me. Just because I write back doesn’t mean we’re actually going to meet up.”

  “Okay. One date.”

  I’m sitting on a bar stool at Café d’Alsace, scanning the wine list slowly, the only person in the restaurant. Out of the corner of my eye I see the door open, and instinctively I turn my head. It’s him, but he looks . . . different. Or, different than his photos. Kind of . . . shockingly handsome, so much so (and so surprisingly so, given what I’d expected based on that bathroom cell phone picture) that my head jerks back in surprise, a kind of quasi-double take. Dark brown hair with sparkling James Marsden-y eyes. Mom was right!

  My mind swims with ringing melodies and visions of clouds parting and—well, it’s not quite that dramatic, but . . . is this what the French mean when they refer to a coup de foudre?

  But it’s not just me. Paul’s still standing in front of the door, semifrozen in place. Our eyes are locked, but not totally in a steamy, sexy, come-hither way, more like a deer-in-headlights kind of way.

  I cock my head and give a half smile, trying to wordlessly communicate, Hi. Are you my date?

  Finally, after what feels like a prolonged awkward freeze frame, but probably lasted fractions of seconds, he walks toward me.

  “Alison?”

  “Yep.” I smile and nod.

  “Hey! . . . Sorry, I—you look different. Than I expected.”

  I grimace.

  “I mean, prettier. Way prettier. Your photos are pretty . . .” he trails off. “But you’re even prettier in person.”

  “Thanks. I think?” I bite my lip unconsciously. “But I actually thought—”

  “Yeah, it’s . . . it’s a compliment.”

  “—the same thing when you walked in.”

  We both smile during the pause that ensues. Then he starts:

  “So, have you been here before?”

  “Nope. I actually live right up the street, two blocks due west, but I haven’t been here. I’ve been meaning to, but . . . no. You?”

  “No. I really haven’t been anywhere in the neighborhood, but I’ve heard they have an extensive wine list—”

  “They do,” I interrupt, brandishing the binder of wines by the glass and bottle.

  “—and apparently good bar eats, too. I don’t know if you’re hungry. I guess normal people usually eat dinner by now.”

  “No, I actually haven’t eaten yet. Long story, but I tutor sometimes, and I didn’t have time to go home in between leaving the student’s apartment and coming here.”

  “Huh. What do you tutor?” he asks.

  “Math. English. And the SAT.”

  “For . . . like, community service?”

  “No, for money. I’m not that good of a person.”

  “How often do you do it?”

  “Umm.” I pause to think. “It changes seasonally, but right now I tutor one to two hours Sunday through Thursday.”

  “After work?”

  “Yeah, after work on weeknights. Midafternoon on Sundays.”

  “So when you say you tutor ‘sometimes,’ you mean ‘all the time.’”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I smile.

  “Does it pay well?”

  “I mean, not like, lawyer money. But way better than conservator money . . . I basically make as much from tutoring each week as I do from my full-time job.”

  “And it’s year-round?”

  “Not in summers. Or over holiday weeks, Christmas, New Year’s, you know.”

  “That sounds like a sweet gig.”

  “I mean it’s really good money, and I actually like teaching the math stuff. But it’s hard to say it’s ‘sweet,’” I hold up finger quotes, “when you need a part-time job to supplement your full-time job.”

  “Yeah. I get that.” He picks up the menu. “So if you haven’t eaten, should we eat?” He scans the menu. “Olives? Cheese? Charcuterie?”

  “Yes.”

  “To everything?”

  “To anything.” I shrug.

  “What kind of wine do you want?”

  I shrug again.

  “Everything and anything?” he asks, an eyebrow raised as he looks into my eyes. Our eyes lock again, and my heart feels like it’s hiccuping, which is vaguely irritating. I hope hope hope I’m not blushing crimson.

  “Pretty much. But if you need me to be decisive, something Cabernet-y, or Cab Franc-y. Or from Bordeaux.”

  “Cool. I have no idea what that means, but there’s only one Bordeaux by the glass, so that makes it easy.” He leans into the bar and gets the bartender’s attention.

  “Did you grow up here? In the city?”

  “No, I grew up in the suburbs. My whole family’s actually here now, but despite that I like to maintain that I’m not a true ‘New Yorker’ at heart.”

  “What’s so bad about being a New Yorker?”

  “Nothing. My parents and siblings consider themselves New Yorkers, but I . . . like green grass and open plains and smaller-scale buildings.”

  “Do they all live in Manhattan?”

  “Yeah. I’m the youngest of three, and when I went to college my parents did that whole ‘reverse-migration’ thing and moved out of the suburbs and back into the big city. My sister was already here since she’d graduated college. She’s married now with a toddler. My brother followed shortly after. Then me.”

  “Do you all live near each other?” he asks.

  “Embarrassingly, yes. I live within two blocks of my sister and her family, and two blocks from my parents in the opposite direction. My brother lives downtown, so we like to pretend he’s the black sheep of the family, but he’s still on the 6 train, so that’s . . . not far by most peoples’ standards.”


  “Yeah, I’d say that’s close.”

  “What about you?” I ask, at the same time he says, “What’s your family like?”

  We both smile, then repeat our questions, again at the same time.

  “You first,” Paul commands.

  “That’s a good question, but I don’t know. They’re really nice? And we all love each other a lot? I have nothing to compare it to.”

  “Did you guys, like, have dinner together every night in the dining room? Or did you have TV dinners on your lap in the den?”

  “Oh. That kind of stuff? We definitely grew up in the 1950s, not the 1980s. My sister used to call my mom ‘Donna Reed with a brain.’ It would have been unheard of for one of us to eat dinner alone. We often got up extra early to have breakfast together before my dad left for work.”

  “Whoa. Intense.”

  I laugh. “I know. But my mom’s an awesome cook, and she focused pretty much all of her energy on us. We had limited TV time, and usually it was for shows that we’d all sit and watch together, like Star Trek or The Wonder Years. No Nintendo, no Sega—”

  “Man, that sucks.”

  “I know, right? Except this one summer, when we all piled into a rented RV and drove cross-country for four weeks to all the National Parks, then we were allowed to play Sega Genesis . . . mostly because the RV came with one.”

  “It must have been like crack for you guys, if you’d never played it before.”

  “Oh, we always played at our friends’ houses. But, yeah. I think my mom was actually pretty disappointed. Here the whole point of the trip was to stare out the window and take in nature’s beauteous bounty . . . and we couldn’t take our eyes off Mortal Kombat and Sonic the Hedgehog.”

  Paul smiles. “I don’t think I knew any families like yours growing up.”

  I can’t tell if this is a good thing or a bad thing. “Okay! Your turn.”

  “Well, I grew up in Lancaster, Ohio and—”

  “—I just finished working on a preservation plan for your arts center!”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I never actually went there, but I had to work on a historic structures report for it to help them secure state funding for the restoration.”