* * *
Gwen: Definitely. I’m not at all into astrology. My sister put my profile up and made me promise to go on at least two dates. She’s getting married in a few weeks, and she wants to make sure I don’t spend my life as a desperate spinster. (TMI? Did I scare you off?)
Okay, hang on. She’s obviously intelligent, loves cats, is great with kids, and she’s not into astrology. How is this possible? Am I chatting with a bot?
ObiWan: Not at all. I’m relieved actually because I think astrology is a bunch of hooey.
* * *
Gwen: Hooey?
* * *
ObiWan: You know, crap. Nonsense…
* * *
Gwen: Okay, if you use the word hooey, it means we have to meet.
* * *
ObiWan: What’s the correlation?
* * *
Gwen: I’ve deduced that guys who use the word hooey aren’t creepy weirdos.
* * *
ObiWan: Why, thank you. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever texted to me.
* * *
Gwen: Laughing face emoji. What are you doing tonight?
Am I about to go on a date?
ObiWan: Just getting caught up on some work, but it can wait.
I hit send before I can change my mind, then I watch as she’s typing something back.
Gwen: I hope this doesn’t sound too forward, but there’s this little pub in Hell’s Kitchen that I totally love. It’s called The Salty Nuts. The owners are from Ireland and they’re an absolute riot. You wouldn’t want to meet me there for a drink, would you?
Huh. A drink. Much less pressure than an entire meal. Fun pub, so that cuts back on awkward silences because we can people watch. Wait. What am I thinking? I’m trying to prove my hypothesis that the app is garbage, not meet my soulmate.
ObiWan: Sure. Why not? Meet you there in an hour?
* * *
Gwen: Perfect! I have long blonde hair and I’ll be in a pink sundress.
* * *
ObiWan: Okay. Tall, dark hair, and I’ll be in a T-shirt and jeans.
Exactly forty-eight minutes later, I step up to the door of the little pub just as a pretty blonde in a pink dress gets out of a cab. I stop and stare at her, then we both do that thing where you point at each other with a questioning look before nodding. Finally, we both laugh and hold our hands out to shake.
“Ben,” I offer.
“Gwen,” she says with a smile. “Oh, Ben and Gwen. That’s kind of cute.”
I chuckle, then hold the door open for her. “Nice to meet you.”
A tiny woman with shockingly red, spiky hair whizzes past us, saying, “Welcome to The Salty Nuts. I’m nut number one, Mary. Number two is my husband, Joe, behind the bar over there. Have a seat anywhere you like, and I’ll be right there to take your order.”
Gwen grins at her, then looks up at me. “See? Fun.”
“Very.” I follow Gwen to a booth near the back and we settle ourselves in while The Dubliners play over the speaker. The crowd joins in every time they get to the part about “the Irish Rover,” and I can’t help but feel oddly excited.
Mary arrives at our table. “Let me guess, first date?”
Gwen’s head snaps back and she grins. “How’d you know?”
“Because he’s being all polite-like, letting you pick the booth and go first. That’s usually a good sign.”
I give her a mock offended look, and say, “That makes it sound like you wouldn’t expect me to always be a gentleman.”
Mary leans toward me and confides, “You can’t keep that up forever, love. Trust me. At some point, you’ll need to just treat her like a regular person, or you’ll go, dare I say it, nuts.”
Her husband hurries by with a tray of beers and cuts in, “It’s not the being polite that makes you nuts, it’s the wife.”
“You old poop!” Mary says, shaking her head. Turning back to us, she says, “White wine for the lady and a pint of ale for Mr. Polite here?”
“He’s actually Dr. Polite,” Gwen tells her.
Mary gives me an impressed nod. “A doctor, are you? How nice.” Turning back to Gwen, she says, “Maybe don’t let this one get away. A doctor’s wife is a good life.”
Gwen chuckles, and I add, “Actually, she’s a dentist, so maybe I’d be the one with the good life.”
“Oh, he wants to be a kept man,” Mary tells Gwen. “Interesting … I’ll go get your drinks while you two plan the wedding.”
She zips off, leaving us in an awkward silence. After a minute, I say, “So, your sister is getting married?”
Gwen nods. “Yup. To her high school sweetheart.”
“That’s nice,” I say, wondering if it really is nice.
“It is. He’s a great guy, and they really love each other.”
“I’ve heard that helps in marriages.”
Gwen laughs and we smile at each other. She is really pretty. And smart. So why don’t I feel any spark here? I’d like to say it’s because the app is crap, but who would have ever thought it would have set me up with a normal person?
The next hour flies by surprisingly fast. Gwen and I discover we have a lot in common, including the fact that we’ve both sacrificed love for our careers; we both would like to get married someday; and we both want to eventually end up in Florida (me for my work and her for the weather). I should “like her” like her, but I merely like her.
For some stupid reason, I find myself imagining what Serafina would answer to the questions I’m asking Gwen. How ridiculous is that? I’ve literally got the perfect woman sitting in front of me, and I can’t stop thinking about the woman I love to hate. What is wrong with me?
Maybe I’m putting up a wall because I so badly need the app not to work? That must be it. It’s called researcher bias. I believe the app won’t work, so I’m creating conditions in which it won’t. As a purist, I’m utterly disgusted by myself at the moment. There must be something wrong with Gwen. I just have to find out what it is …
Two hours later, Mary comes by with the bill and tells us they’re closing up for the night. Then she adds, “Being that you’re still here, things must be going pretty well.”
Gwen blushes and glances at me. Oh, no. She likes me. And I feel … nothing. I smile back at her, pick my wallet up off the table, and pull my credit card out. “Let me get the drinks.”
“I’ll buy next time,” she says with a shy smile.
“Sounds great.” But only because next time I’ll find out what’s wrong with her so I can prove this app is bogus…