Match Made in Manhattan

by Amanda Stauffer

  “So. How can I get you to tell me?” Paul asks.

  “I . . . that would be impossible,” I say. “Scout’s honor, pinky swears, you know, girl-code stuff . . .”

  “What if I . . .” He puts his beer down on top of the jukebox. Uh-oh. My heart hiccups. “Tickle it out of you?” he asks, placing his hands on my sides and starting to tickle my stomach.

  “NO, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! Please, no!” I say through uncontrollable laughter, because it actually does tickle. “Please no! Stop! Stop!” I’m having trouble catching my breath. “I’m so, so, so ticklish! Let me—”

  “—Yes, I can see that.”

  “—at least—” He keeps tickling me as I gasp for air. “Let me at least put my bottle down!” I manage to blurt out quickly.

  “So. I take it,” he says slowly, “that you’re really ticklish.”

  “You think?”

  “So are you going to tell me now?”

  “Now that you’ve tortured me? No thanks.”

  “How about if I . . .” my heart flutters again. Harder, once he looks straight into my eyes. Our eyes search each other’s, and my heart races. “Kiss you?” I feel like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. I pull my eyes away and look around awkwardly, focusing on nothing in particular.

  “Uhh.” I search for words. Or composure. Or both. Well, I killed that moment. “Nope. I’ll never tell.”

  “I’m gonna do it anyway,” he whispers as he leans in and kisses me deeply. It feels nice, and exciting, and it lasts for what feels like a very long time. Leona croons, “Yet I know that the goal is to keep me from falling . . .”

  “Oww oww!” Brian catcalls from across the room. I put my hands on Paul’s chest and push him away, then scratch at my neck, embarrassed, and look over at Brian and Cassie. “Get a room!” Brian shouts, grinning.

  Paul gently places his hand on my cheek and redirects my face toward his again. “Let’s ignore them.” And with his other hand on my lower back, he pulls me in and kisses me again.

  “Okay, so you put infants in this,” Cassie says, reading her Taboo card as she stands beside our living room couch.

  “Stroller!” Brian guesses.

  “No, more like, when you’re at home. It doesn’t move, it’s got mesh siding, you put it on the floor.”

  “Baby cage!” Brian guesses again. Paul and I exchange a look of confusion.

  “Baby cage?” I ask. “Who . . . puts their baby in a baby cage?”

  “I think someone’s had a bit too much to drink,” Cassie says sweetly. “But keep going! We’re being timed!”

  “Rugrat . . . cradle . . . a little help here?” Brian asks.

  “No, you were closer with ‘baby cage,’ go back to that idea.”

  “Aaaaaaaand time,” Paul says, turning over the plastic hourglass.

  “Really?” Cassie asks. “Really? Baby cage?”

  “I plead fatigue,” Brian says. “It’s . . .” he glances at his watch, “four thirty a.m.” He stands up and starts walking down the hall. Cassie, still standing near the couch, looks from me to Paul, a little confused.

  “Well, are you coming or not?” Brian calls out.

  She glances again from me to Paul. “Who are you talking to?” she calls out.

  “You,” he says, without turning back.

  “Wait—where are we going?” Cassie asks.

  “You live here, don’t you? Isn’t this the way to your bedroom?”

  Cassie looks back and forth between me and Paul again, eyes wide, then smiles and trots off down the hallway behind him.

  “Well that was—”

  “—unexpected,” Paul says.

  “—smooth,” I say at the same time. We laugh, looking at each other.

  “So . . . do I get to stay, too?” Paul asks, leaning in and kissing me again. We kiss for maybe a minute, all the while I’m trying to formulate what to say. I pull back. “So, umm. Normally . . .” We kiss a little longer. “I would have laid this out before letting you come upstairs.” I lean in to kiss him again. “But since we had . . . company, I didn’t really get the chance.” He keeps kissing me.

  “Oh yeah?” Kiss again. “What was it about?” More kissing.

  I sigh, then start. “Well, I would have said, ‘you’re welcome to come upstairs,’” I lean back in to kiss him. This is probably the least direct version of the Pants Speech ever given in the history of the world. “‘But I need you to know you’re not getting in my pants tonight.’”

  “Oh.” He kisses me again. “Is that so?” he whispers.

  “No, I’m being utterly and totally serious,” I say, still kissing him. Then I pull back. “I am, actually, being kind of totally serious,” I say, more seriously.

  “Do you want me to go home?” he asks.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I mean you can, if you want to. But this is nice.” We kiss again.

  I wake up to faint knocking on my bedroom door. I poke Paul in the ribs. His eyelids flutter open. He smiles and pecks me on the lips. “Good morning.”

  “Someone’s knocking,” I whisper and point to the door. “Should I tell them to come in?” There’s another set of four faint knocks in succession.

  “Uhhh, sure.” Paul groans and rubs his eyes.

  “Yes?” I call out. “Come in?” The door inches open, and Brian pokes his head in.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you guys up.” He looks at us. “Oh. I did wake you guys up.”

  “Yes. Yes, you did,” Paul says. “What do you want?”

  “Well, first, uh . . . oops. Sorry. Well, I’m going to get going now. Except . . . I don’t know where to go since all my stuff is at your place,” he says to Paul.

  “Do you want my keys?” Paul asks.

  “Sure.” Brian pauses. “Where is your apartment, again?”

  Paul sighs. “Okay. Can you give me a few minutes?”

  “Sure thing,” Brian says. “I’ll just be in the living room.”

  Paul rolls over to face me and says, “That was . . .” His eyes look away, as if he’s trying to remember something. He smiles. “. . . really, really fun last night.”

  I smile. “Yeah. I had fun, too. . . . And who knew? Brian and Cassie? Kinda random, huh?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. You and Cassie seem pretty different. I’m not sure I would have pegged you as best friends.”

  “Is that code for she’s more fun than me?” I pout.

  He kisses me for a few seconds then brushes my hair behind my ear. “That’s not what I meant. I just mean she’s more . . .”

  “Wild?” I suggest. “Yeah, we know. Cassie and I are different animals. In college we’d start our Saturday nights together, go to the same parties, same bars, but wind up rehashing two totally different evenings over brunch the next morning. By the end of the night, she’d be blackout drunk and have lost her coat and her purse, and then she’d stumble home—sometimes barefoot because she’d lost her shoes.”

  Paul laughs. “Yeah. I can’t quite picture you doing that.”

  “Me?” I point at myself. “Yeah, not quite. I . . . tend to be what Match.com would categorize as a ‘social drinker.’ I’ve never gotten sick from drinking; never blacked out . . .”

  “Then you haven’t lived.” Paul smiles, and at the sight of his dimples, that giddy feeling in my gut returns.

  “So how long is Brian staying for?”

  “He leaves tomorrow.” As he talks, he climbs out of bed and starts gathering his socks and shirt. I sit in bed, watching him get dressed, half-wondering what happened to Cassie, half-wondering if I’ll see Paul again. It would have been pointless for him to leave at four-thirty in the morning even after the Pants Speech, because who wants to walk home in the cold at that hour?

  “What are you up to for the rest of the weekend?” he asks.

  “You’re lookin’ at it,” I say. “I plan to sleep, maybe run, go to another Feb Club party tonight . . .” This is a lie, I have a date tonight. “Watch th
e Oscars tomorrow night. . . . I don’t know. Typical weekend stuff. You? Are you working?”

  “Yeah, I have to go into the office today. And then hopefully get out in time to hang out with Brian and some of our friends tonight.”

  I nod.

  “Do you want to watch the Oscars together tomorrow night?” he asks, then adds quickly, “Or did you already have plans for that?”

  “No. I mean, yes.” That didn’t come out right. I shake my head, then self-correct: “No, I don’t have plans to watch. Yes, let’s watch together.”

  “Great.” He smiles. He finishes buttoning his shirt then says, “Sorry I have to run off like this. I don’t want Brian to—”

  “—Say no more. It’s fine. I don’t want Brian to hang out in our living room all day either.” I smile.

  “Well.” He breathes in. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. What time do those things start anyway?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe seven? Eight?”

  “Why don’t we say seven. Do you eat sushi?”

  “I do.”

  “Excellent. I’ll text you my address.”

  “Cool. I’ll text you if I don’t receive it.”

  He kisses me quickly and then leaves, closing the door behind him.

  After washing my face and brushing my teeth, I walk into the living room.

  “Hey, sleepyhead,” Cassie says.

  “It’s ten o’clock! I only got five hours of sleep. How on earth are you up? And functioning?”

  “Functioning is a relative term,” Nicole says, a commentary on the fact that they’re both settled into the couch, still in pajamas, watching TV.

  “So why did Brian get up and leave?”

  “He said he needed to get up, that he’s not a fan of lying around in bed once he’s awake.”

  “Isn’t that every man?” Nicole asks. And then, turning to me, “And more importantly, Hi! You had a boy sleep over last night? How was that?”

  “It was . . . good? He didn’t really have much of a choice, I think, since we didn’t finish playing Taboo until close to five.”

  “Did you . . . sleep with him?” Nicole asks.

  “God, no! Do you know me at all?”

  “Well, I didn’t hear the Pants Speech on our doorstep last night,” Cassie says.

  “Because you were standing right there! With Brian! I gave it to him on the couch, after you guys went to sleep. Or to bed, rather.”

  “Was that awkward?”

  “What?”

  “Giving him the Pants Speech right after your friends sneak off to go bang? Your friends who only met that night, through you?”

  I shrug. “I don’t think so. But speaking of which . . . how was it?”

  “Let’s just say I’m glad you met Paul,” Cassie says, smiling.

  “You don’t know who Hugh Jackman is?” I exclaim.

  “No?”

  “First of all, Wolverine? From X-Men? Jean Valjean from Les Mis? Aussie actor—obviously, as you can tell from the accent—kind of a triple threat singer-actor-dancer?” I search his face for a hint of recognition. “Nothing?”

  “Sorry.”

  “He was in one of those magician movies?”

  “Yes! Uhh, The Illusionist! Is he in that?”

  “No, the other one. But you know the title of The Illusionist and you don’t know who Hugh Jackman is? I mean, his physique alone is famous. . . . Fine. Can you pass the soy sauce?” I ask. “I still can’t believe you don’t know who Hugh Jackman is,” I mutter under my breath.

  “I still can’t believe you watch lame musical movies,” he mutters back.

  “So if you’re not into film . . . and you don’t ski so much anymore . . . what other kinds of things do you do?”

  “Apart from being a lawyer for a hundred hours every week?”

  “Yeah. You know, in your copious amount of free time?”

  “I like music. I play music, occasionally.”

  “Guitar?”

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “Every guy on Match plays guitar.”

  “Really?” he asks, seemingly genuinely curious about this fact.

  “Yeah. They all play guitar, and they either ski, snowboard, or surf. Or all three.”

  “I feel so unoriginal.” Then he perks up. “But how many of them are lawyers?”

  “I don’t know. Half?”

  “Seriously?”

  I shrug. “I haven’t run the statistical analysis, but I’d say that’s a safe bet.”

  “How many of them have tattoos?”

  “A lot. Sixty-three percent? Wait—do you have a tattoo?”

  “No. . . .” He laughs. “But so what makes me original?”

  “I don’t know, you tell me.”

  “Well, why did you decide to go on a date with me?”

  “Because you asked.”

  “So do you go on a date with everyone who asks?”

  “No.” I shake my head, smiling. “Not even close.”

  “Because you’re so desirable, it’s hard work driving off the hordes of men flocking to you on Match.com, huh?”

  “Hey, be nice. No. Because there are a lot of crazy people on Match. And in the world. And generally a whole lot of people I’m not interested in, for one reason or another.”

  “So do you have many suitors?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “So why me?”

  “I already told you: because you asked.”

  “But why did you say yes?”

  “Ohhhh, I see how it is. This is the point when you want me to stroke your ego. Well, let’s see. . . .” I count off on my hands, one trait at a time. “You seemed very articulate, both in your emails and profile. You have a job. You live in the same state as me. And your pictures were kind of okay. But you’re actually cuter in person. . . .” I smile teasingly. “Your turn! Why me?”

  “Because you lived within half a mile, and I don’t have time to date someone I need to take a subway to.” He smiles as he puts his chopsticks down, then leans over and kisses me.

  “Well, I guess that’s as good a reason as any?”

  “But also, you’re not like the girls I usually date.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. You’re just not.” He shrugs.

  “Well, you must have meant something by it.”

  “I don’t know. You’re . . . different. Maybe classier?”

  “Are you about to make fun of my dress from Friday night again?”

  He laughs. “No. I’m serious. You just . . . you’re different. It’s a good thing.”

  “So I take it you haven’t dated many architectural conservators before.”

  “Fine, fine. Make a joke about it. I was trying to be nice.”

  “You didn’t say anything!”

  “I just wonder if you would have dated me six years ago.”

  “When you were a ski bum?”

  “A ski bum, with a ponytail, and no—”

  “You had a ponytail!” I exclaim, laughter bubbling up.

  “Yeah, is that so hard to believe?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, it is. . . . I really . . . can’t picture you with a ponytail. Do you have photos?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Oh yes. Please show me pictures! I want to see your ponytail! Was it as long as mine?”

  “Here, I have photos somewhere.” He gets up and walks to his bookshelves. He pulls off a photo album and starts flipping through the pages. “Here are a few. Oh, and Brian’s in that one, too.” I study the photos. The truth is, I wouldn’t have dated him then. A ski bum with a ponytail, no big plans, (seemingly) no aspirations. I wouldn’t have responded to a Match message from him.

  “Well, you were still kind of cute. So maybe I would have dated you,” I lie.

  “I . . . kind of doubt that,” he says.

  “Well, maybe you’re right.” I say, trying to spin my response as if in jest. But it’s true. It’s funny how life
works: cut off your ponytail, get a different job; you’re still the same person underneath the glossier sheen. So why does that stuff matter? Am I really that superficial? “But you know what? You probably wouldn’t have dated me then either,” I suggest.

  “Oh, yeah, there’s no question. I definitely wouldn’t have dated you then.”

  “Wait—why not?” I demand.

  “I don’t know. You seem . . . mainstream.”

  “Like, vanilla? Boring?”

  “No. I just used to go for edgier chicks.”

  “I’m edgy!”

  He laughs.

  “I am!”

  “No, it’s true.” He nods. “You are. You’re a girl who wears a hard hat . . . and wrestles pigs . . . and wears Lycra dresses on Friday nights . . .”

  “I am edgy,” I protest.

  “And I’m being serious,” he says. “My ex-girlfriend was kind of a hard core snowboarder type.” My mind wanders. Does this mean he hasn’t dated anyone since he lived in Colorado? “You’re not as edgy as she is, but you’re not totally mainstream and boring either. You’re like an amalgam, a crossbreed.”

  “Thanks? I guess?”

  “It’s a compliment. I promise.”

  “So why do you . . . date ‘mainstream’ girls now? What changed in you?”

  “I dunno. Priorities, I guess?” He kisses me again, but midway through I push back to get up and go to the bathroom.

  When I come back from the bathroom, his T-shirt and jeans are balled up on the floor, but he’s not watching me. He’s reclined on the couch, watching Matthew McConaughey approach the lectern, like this is totally normal. Startled, I begin with “Umm . . .” and my mouth (and brain) stops there. I feel frozen again—an increasingly familiar feeling around Paul. Then, trying to salvage the moment with humor, I finally say with mock incredulousness, “What part of my Pants Speech did you not understand?”

  He looks up. “Oh!” Then more softly, “But that was . . . on our last date. . . . And this is our . . . third date?”

  I sit down, awkwardly, at his feet and toss the nearest blanket at him. “Ummm . . .” I blink, look away, and breathe. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t say anything, and uncomfortable with the silence, I add, “I don’t . . . I guess I didn’t make it clear, but I don’t really abide by the ‘third date’ rule.”