We met through a dating app, but not ON a dating app. Let me explain.

I had only been in the city for less than a year, when on a Wednesday night in March a couple came into the restaurant I was working at and requested the table by the window. Most restaurants have a table like this reserved for dates —often lewdly designated as table number 69 as was the case of this establishment. I sat them, took their drink orders, a glass of Cava for her, a forgettable craft beer for him. The vibes were not good. He spoke with an air of self importance and she had a look of resignation that said she had already made up her mind about him. What she didn’t know was that he was a regular and more so, he lived above the restaurant and would bring his dates here often, I guess he was always timely. What he didn’t know, was that I could see from standing by the table was that her phone was in her lap, her texts were open, and she was actively talking to someone else during the very awkward dinner. Toward close I brought them their tab, they went dutch at her behest and I turned them over to the closing server as my shift was ending. Hanging up my apron I sat at the bar, ordered my allotted glass of zin and counted my tips. The bar tender hands me a paper cup with another glass of wine so the owner can’t see me on camera and we chat for a bit.

This restaurant closes at 10:00, at 9:45 four tipsy girls in pajamas and sweaters walk in and sit at the bar. They ask if I work here. I reply “yes.” They tell me they are here to rescue their friend from a bad date. Eyeing the table by the window, I explain that I am an unfortunate casualty in that date as I barely received a tip, and also informed them of my personal musings and observations about said date. We all laugh, I continue to enjoy my paper cup. One of them says they are all flight attendants and this is their first week in the city after completing training.

The girls wander over to their friend and feign a “chance encounter,” convincing her to come finish the night with them, and the poor fella, too awkward to impose himself further, says goodbye.

Of the four girls there is one, blue eyed with wild blonde hair, she’s the quietest but she laughed at my quips and I knew that this would probably be the last time I ever saw her. The bartender returns and freshens up my paper cup, the girls collect their friend and pile into an Uber. I tear a sheet out from my ticket pad and scrawl my number on it. Looking her earnestly in the eyes I hand her the piece of paper and say if she ever wants to explore the city or grab a drink, to text me. We say goodbye, the unfortunate lad at the table trundles up the stairs outside of the restaurant to his apartment above. I catch the number 9 train home, watching little text bubbles appear on my phone as a girl named Chelsi (with an ‘I’ ) asks if I want to get drinks next week.

Registry