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writer and was granted permission to take a match for a drink—or a walk in Battery Park, as it turned out she constantly kept offering—she would give them my cell phone number, they would text me (the real me), and we'd figure out a time and place."Oh, hey, it's Mom. I asked if she'd like to meet for coffee or a drink. "I texted her back and said, ' Well, it doesn't have to be tonight.' Anyway, not sure what to say. But, days in, even with her increasingly deft ability to start conversations, my mom still had not found me a date. " she asked me, incredulous when I told her that was a no-no. She was waiting outside when I got there., evidently, my mom's type.We were running into problems: To a girl who had broken her ankle when she "partied too hard for America" over July 4th (her own description) and mentioned New York as a bad place for limited mobility, my mom responded with, "Correct on bad city for broken bone navigation." (She then also asked, "Are you athletic? (At least those weren't the same, I guess.) I offered a hug and a "Hi, nice to meet you," which was—unbeknownst to her—the first interaction we had ever exchanged. We had nothing in common outside of the fact that we both had eyes and jobs. If I asked her any of the things we had already "discussed" on Tinder previously, she made no mention of me bringing it up again here.
My grandma recently asked me how my new girlfriend was, even though I don't have one.
The restaurant was crowded and humming with the auditory heartbeat of a Friday night in New York.
We sat at the bar, and as the date wound down, a somewhat intoxicated woman behind Katie leaned over.
I wondered who you might miss seeing if you were always looking.
She's 30, has a real, actual pulse, and has never been on Tinder in her life.