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Me: What are you looking for in a partner?
Decker: Someone who is just as comfortable in a dress as she is in sweatpants.
Ugh. How cliché.
I roll my eyes. Literally every single guys says that.
Literally.
My phone pings again.
Decker: Did that make you gag? I bet every guy says that.
Me: As a matter of fact…they do LOL but that doesn’t make it any less true.
Me: If you’re a lawyer I imagine you need someone who can go to dinners and fundraisers with you, who likes to dress up.
Decker: I do! LOL. Comes with the territory unfortunately. And it’s not as glamorous as some people think it is; work is work is work, even if I’m wearing lipstick.
Decker: Even if YOU are wearing lipstick—I didn’t mean me
Me: Hey, no judging if you were
I’m an equal opportunity lover.
Decker: Phew, what a relief **wink wink**
I haven’t been on a date with a decent guy in months, though not for lack of trying. It seems like every match has been a fail, or the guy has been married and lying about it, or he’s way more into me than I am of him.
The curse of having ones shit together…
Decker seems like a keeper—and if he’s as charismatic in person as he is in the dating app, then whoa baby, I would twirl in circles and be doing the happy dance.
Not really my type physically, although to be fair, I’m not sure what my type is. It varies, if I’m being honest. Big burly. Tall. Clean shaven but also: bearded. Dark hair. Hairy. Not hairy. Shaggy hair or well groomed—my type is all over the place. Not only that, I’ve toyed with the idea of widening my search to include everyone, not just men.
Love is love and all that, and if I still haven’t found what I’m looking for—why not?
And since we’re on the subject, I have a little secret to spill about the time I went to the dentist and accidentally hit on her. She was working on my teeth and as you know, having a conversation while you’re sitting in the chair isn’t easy.
It’s damn near impossible.
My dentist is beautiful. Funny. Big, bright smile.
She always has a story ripped from the headlines and makes small-talk about it, wanting to know my opinion about this or that as she’s drilling away in my mouth. While she drills, I study her face; hair. Eyes. Teeth.
The bridge of her nose, which is always visible above her surgical mask.
I shouldn’t have a crush on her but I do.
Anyway, one day when she was doing an impression of my top teeth, patiently doing the work herself because her assistant had to go see another patient, she asked me a question and good-naturedly, I waited to answer until the metal mold was out of my mouth.
“We should continue this conversation over coffee,” I joked. “I can never answer with gunk in my mouth.”
The doctor swiveled on her stool, busying herself with writing my name on the impression mold, expression neutral.
Oh shit.
Had she thought I was hitting on her?
