So I’m at this Jew party and I meet this guy. We instantly vibe. He’s dressed well – and I mean well. An oversized cream t-shirt meant to flop against his lanky but somehow still built body. A shirt clearly from Zara, but not one of those $10 tees they have – this one cost him at least $45. It’s settled against Calvin black jeans, cuffed at the bottom perfectly to reveal a pair of pink socks underneath. His shoes, Nike Af1s, recently cleaned; he probably scrubbed them himself. He looks like he could pull off a nose ring.
“Oh my god I love your shirt,” he says. It’s from Forever 21 and has a picture of Taylor Swift’’s ‘Folklore’ album cover on it. Compared to him, I’m severely underdressed.
We spend the next 15 minutes talking like die-hard Swifties in Instagram comments. It seems like he could talk about Taylor forever, so I switch topics.
He pours me a Vodka Cranberry, the proportions are perfect. I’m tipsy as fuck at this point, so I’ve turned on my flirty moves. I touch his arm, laugh at his sassy jokes, and happily provide my number when he says he heard a podcast analyzing Dua Lipa’s ‘Levitating’ that I must listen to.
He tells me he’s getting a degree in business at, and you’ll never believe this, Brooklyn College. Shocker. His father wants him to take over the family jeweler company.
“I have the jeweler instinct,” he tells me, “I could bring you into the shop one day. Get you a stunning ring for a great price.”
“What kind of ring?” I ask.
“Whatever kind you want.” He touches my arm gently.
He offers to walk me home, but doesn’t try to come upstairs.
“Let’s hang out soon,” he says, “It was so nice to chill with you.”
And there I am, back in my apartment alone, shuffling through my drawer to find my vibrator.
Please will someone just tell me, is he gay or just Syrian?