One day I reluctantly schlepped into a Lower East Side gastro pub after trekking from Hoboken in the pouring rain to meet Karl, a tall glass of water originally from Westchester living on, surprise, the Lower East Side. It should have been my first admonition, but I digress.
After chatting over some craft beers and a tomato burrata, I thought it was going exceptionally well. We both had an affinity for winter sports, both studied abroad in Spain, and we bonded over our hatred for the the blatant and over abundant misuse of the word ‘literally.’
We were nearing the end of our evening and I was delighted when he expressed how much he enjoying my company and that he would fancy seeing me for a second date, to which I gladly accepted.
I excused myself to use the ladies room and when I returned to my bar stool I had a clear view of what he was doing on his cell phone.
I get it, this was our first date and just because he asked me on a second does not make him my fiance, but perhaps he could have waited to end one date before he shamelessly searching for another.
“Oh, so how is Tinder going today? Find anything good?”
Clearly blushing as he was so busted, “Haha, sorry, I’m having a great time with you, it’s just good to have several irons in the fire, ya know?”
“I know all too well I suppose. Happy swiping. Thanks for the drinks.”
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