I've been here a few times with friends, with my mom, and most recently, with my roommate. The first few times were pretty great. Good food, drinks, service. But the last time with my roommate was far from stellar...My roommate and I are 27 and 28, respectively, and live on the same block as Cherry Point. We went to sit at the bar to order happy hour drinks. The bartender carded us and he took each of our cards for something like 5 minutes. Then we noticed after he finally returned them that HE GOOGLE IMAGE SEARCHED the licenses from each of our respective home states to reference ours against. There was an iPad open at the bar. As nice as it is to find out you look younger than you are, being treated like someone thinks you are breaking the law completely negates that novelty.
- Sheila, NY
Hard to believe for Sheila how quickly 27 turned into 30. Once she was a spry, adult in training, female New Yorker, taking over the world one grind at a time. Now she was in front of her makeup mirror, with a tutorial of the “perfect night out makeup” on her laptop, and Ariana Grande filling up her two bedroom apartment in Greenpoint. Her roommate now long gone and living in Montclair with her husband. As she took her index finger and tried to blend eye shadow into her lid, she exhaled an exhaustion that had been building all week. Tonight was her 30th birthday party and she would be going dateless. Alone. Forced to trust that her friends would be thoughtful enough to bring her flowers, balloons, tell her she looked flawless while they handed her a cocktail of her choice… Sheila was a fiercely independent woman who had NY to thank for her personal growth and textured exterior, but as the theory goes, independent women often have a tougher time finding and holding onto relationships.
There are some women who lay awake at night pondering the “whys” of their single situation. Publicly and fiercely cursing the ones that have left them, while inwardly replaying every conversation and dissecting every memory. Sheila was not one of those women. After a handful of strained attempts at a relationship (including a ghosting because of a limp handshake) Sheila was aware the problem was her.
Was she wrong to throw herself into her career? Was it her fault she found success early on as a graphic designer, and the adrenaline of being overworked and moderately praised soothed her in a way that a relationship never could? Some people needed validation from love. Sheila merely asked to be validated by her work. Her performance, if she had to state it so vaguely. She knew very early on that while she wanted the security of a warm body holding her at night, telling her how beautiful she was, and how much she was loved, those things were never going to satiate her the way that an applause in a presentation room would. Or the simple and basically hollow, “great work,” email from her boss. Her first job was at a retail boutique on Main Street in her hometown when she was 16. She got the job without any retail experience, but during her interview she stated a convincing case of her detail oriented, neat freak work ethic, and that she actually took pleasure in folding and color coordinating her closet. Within a week, the store received a surprising onslaught of rave reviews, online and in person, for the tidiness and exemplary organization. For that she got a $5 raise. This public display of gratification gave Sheila that heady euphoria she had heard described in romantic comedies when the leading man finds the woman of his dreams. Sheila re-read the online reviews before bed each night, taking in that deep, nicotine inhale of glory.
She took a sip of prosecco from her go-to stemless wine glass that said “Betch Please” (a tchotchke from a very basic bachelorette party). Because heterosexual romantic relationships weren’t her forte, it was only natural that she had a wide net of loyal, female friends. Some she could call to have over for face masks and have lengthy debates over the sincerity and sanity of contestants on the Bachelor. Others she could go to a workout class with and maybe take in a cultural activity like the MoMa. The more frequently seen friends were the ones that liked to Froze brunch on Saturdays, and often Sundays, letting cocktail rounds flow into an evening of jumbled social experiences spanning too many bars and questionable credit card charges. It was somehow more organic to her personality to be trusting and loyal to multiple women than to open up and need any one man.
Another reason she knew she was at fault for the state of her love life was her “must have” list. This rigid, bullet pointed list of must have partner criteria was created at age 7, and was almost revised at 20, but she found it so endearing and by all accounts still accurate, she only transferred it from paper to word doc. At the top of the list: She HAD to have autonomy in the relationship. Lack of confidence or any signs of smothering was not to be tolerated. She needed someone who wouldn’t be intimidated by her passions or the success they might deliver. She HAD to have someone tall, no less than 6 feet. It was very imperative that they were funny, but not the dad joke type funny or the kind that likes to do comedy bits using the same stories at every party. He had to be quick with wit and always able to bring a smile to her face no matter how depressed or down she might feel someday. He had to look good in photos. He should be clean, close to his family (but not tied to his mother), romantic but not corny, and not want children.
What she never admitted or wrote down was that this man should never challenge her views, opinions or values because it would chip away at her self esteem and put into question the perfect persona she fought so hard to emulate on a daily basis.
Sheila checked out her finished eye shadow in the mirror and gave herself a wink. Makeup wasn’t her thing and she usually kept it natural, but tonight was something special. Tonight was supposed to be epic. The kind of epic that would be a story she’d tell at a weekend getaway with friends in Montauk. The kind of story no one would believe because one night set in motion a series of events that would catapult Sheila to her happily ever after and then some. She imagined seeing a man at the bar from across the room and giving him the eye. He’d smile at her and teasingly lick his lips before raising his glass and give a cheers in her direction. Maybe she’d bashfully turn away, but still send an inviting glance. He’d walk over and…. She tested this sex eye out in the mirror again, being coy, signaling this new stranger to come over to her. It quickly turned comical and cringe worthy as her wink became a blink and her mouth began curving in uncomfortable ways. “Ah!” she exclaimed as her fake eyelash took a dive into her left eye. Regaining composure, she pushed her shoulders back to adjust her notoriously good posture and glued the synthetic bristles back into place. She really should have gotten her make up done, but pride and budget got the best of her. Fanning her eye dry with her hand, she stood up to go to the kitchen and refill the Betch.
Her fridge had a handful of save the dates and wedding invitations stuck with random magnets. As she poured the remainder of the prosecco bottle into her glass she went down the line one by one. There was Danielle who had met Tyler in a run group and after only a year together decided this was it for them. Their destination wedding was coming up in a month and Sheila would be going stag to that too. She tried to remain hopeful that with the beaches of Mexico as the backdrop, a weekend of celebrating love wafting hope, and an open bar flush with Tequila, she wouldn’t be alone for long.
Sheila went back and forth about short-term hookups and meaningful, long-term relationships. She didn’t know which best suited her. Any hook up scenario always left her feeling cheap and she knew she lacked the affable characteristics to pretend sharing her body with someone could merely be physical, and not emotional. Even though at times, she shamelessly needed that physical attention and did her best to manage that appropriately. If she took a relationship too far, she inevitably would have to compromise something, if not everything in her daily routine. Her schedule, her work relationship, her friends, her hobbies, and her autonomy would never be the same. A simple, “Let’s grab breakfast tomorrow,” request would turn into a timing issue because she would want to sleep in, and then hit the gym, and her partner wouldn’t want to eat his first meal at around two. Not every man was ready to meld to her schedule and priorities, least of all, after the first night together, or even a second date. Not every man wanted to feel like the 15th wheel at a boozy brunch with a hoard of other single females who may or may not cry on your shoulder while they ask for a man’s honest opinion.
A few weeks ago, Sheila thought she’d be attending her birthday, and probably this gorgeous Mexico wedding, with a date. Finally coming to the conclusion her dating issues were entirely in her hands to change, she decided to take a completely different approach. Yes, Sheila was ready to embrace change. A truly independent and aware woman would do nothing less. This would be an exercise in her ability to grow with a new outlook on love and force her into believing “having it all” could be a reality. All she had to do was be more open.
One night on Bumble, scrolling around while waiting for the E, Sheila found a solid prospect named Dylan. Dylan looked tall and slender with blonde hair that maintained a coiffed side parted bang that ended just above his right eyebrow. He claimed to be a creative working in the music industry and, “Looking for something BIG.” She took that as a sign Dylan was sensitive enough to embrace the Sex and the City fan culture and that he was secure in his masculinity to admit it. His main profile pic showed him at a lake standing on the back of a pontoon holding a White Claw. His abs were chiseled and his hair was freshly wet. Imagining herself next to him on a boat, maybe even in his arms, she swiped to view more. Bar night with the guys. Selfie from backstage at a concert. Obligatory Brooklyn bridge shot with what looked like his mom? Candid shot of him playing guitar in his bedroom (she was sure he staged this one).
It wasn’t impressive, but she couldn’t deny he was hot and he seemed creative and possibly spontaneous, which would be new for her. In some ways, Dylan reminded her of the boys she would crush on in High School. The boys who played in a local band, obsessed with their instrument, but were also very sweet and a little shy. She knew instinctively a musician wasn’t likely to yield her a stable and fulfilling life, and normally she would have discarded his profile and moved on, but his bio said he was in venue staging, which didn’t necessarily mean part time cover band guitarist.
So she typed, “Fuck, Marry, Kill….Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha.”
While she waited, she continued to scroll through Bumble’s options, responding to a few unread messages from men she had ignored for eliciting bright red flags or not adhering to her checklist.
Dylan’s response popped in while Sheila was making herself dinner. “Kill Carrie, Fuck Samantha, Marry Charlotte. But I wish Miranda was an option because I might have fucked her over Samantha.”
By choosing Charlotte he signaled he was interested in settling down with someone put together; someone like her who was thoughtful in her future endeavors and wanted that picture perfect, American dream kind of life.
Sheila and Dylan continued to message on Bumble, before moving to actual text message by the time Sheila was done eating. It was a lot of fun, fluff talk, but she could tell Dylan had wit even though he probably used a lot of the same quirky questions on other women. By the time Sheila laid down for bed, they had set a date for the next night at a restaurant near Sheila’s place. They’d meet for happy hour and see where the night went.
When Sheila arrived, she found Dylan waiting outside of Cherry Point for her. A guy who’s on time… She liked it. His outfit was nothing to get excited about; it was a simple combo of jeans, plain tee, and buttoned up flannel tucked under a faded jean jacket. At least she wasn’t overdressed. He reached in for a nice, deep hug which Sheila liked because it broke the ice quickly, and she felt that those abs were in fact, very real. He was just as hot in person and her head reached happily at his chest (height test passed). She was beginning to be more thankful for this less critical dating approach.
Sheila opened the floor length glass door for them and entered the romantic, library-esque space first to greet the host. She didn't want to give Dylan a chance to suggest sitting at a squished, two top table wedged between diners who either talk too much or solely stare into their phones. For this she wanted to feel like they had some flexibility to talk and have premiere proximity to the liquor. The bar was cozy, with a marble L-shaped countertop mixed with warm wood colored foundation and stools. As they sat down, she remembered the last time she came here with her friend Emily for happy hour and wrote what she felt was a scathing review. Which now in hindsight makes her cringe with childlike embarrassment. Why would she think complaining about looking younger, and being carded by a bartender who probably was fooled many times before, was worthy of publishing on the Internet? Literally anyone in her circle could search her name on the website, and read this embarrassing piece of embellished fiction deciding right then and there that she is a moron unworthy of employment or friendship. It was these kind of small imperfections that grated at Sheila’s insides like silverware scraping at an empty plate.
The bartender quickly pushed paper menus and two glasses of water in front of them before turning to the mirrored liquor shelf to begin mixing a cocktail. “Oh yes! They have oysters. Do you like oysters?” Dylan asked without breaking eye contact with a tightly gripped menu in his hand.
Sheila was surprised by Dylan’s thrill over oysters. It wasn’t just the volume of the explanation, but she additionally realized she hadn’t heard him speak. That might have been the first real sentence he’d uttered since, “Hi.”
“I’ve actually never really tried them,” Sheila said nervously. “That’s not like your thing is it? Because they’re aphrodisiacs or whatever?”
Dylan laughed a guttural laugh that felt out of place and Sheila looked around to see if anyone else had noticed the irrational outburst. “No, that’s my date 2 move. But seriously, oysters are literally the best. I mean have you had scallops? If you’ve had scallops you’ll seriously love these. I had the best oysters of my life on a trip to Portland once. Found this little hidden gem with some buddies of mine when we were on a beer crawl. They made fresh cocktail sauce and literally shucked them right in front of you. Wow. I promise you’ll love them.”
Dylan tipped his head up in the direction of the bartender and he came over to take their order. Sheila pretended to need more time by burying her face in the menu, so Dylan threw in a half dozen oysters to get the “party started,” and ordered their version of an old fashioned called a Thinking Cap. Sheila threw in a martini hoping she could get on Dylan’s level. He had probably pre-gamed before the date because he was nervous. The alternative being this was his natural state and she wasn’t sure she was ready to deal with a sober lunatic with a penchant for shellfish. In the interest of being open-minded she was thankful for an opportunity to try new things and they had two more happy hours head of them.
“So what’s your job again? Stage construction or something in music?” Sheila asked.
Dylan got right into his occupational background, proving he wasn’t just passionate about oysters. He was a big fan of concerts and their production. He was especially fascinated by stage lighting and used Madison Square Garden as a deep reference of why lighting was the most integral part of what makes a concert okay versus iconic. Or at least he tried. Sheila’s martini showed up just as he politely scolded her for not knowing MSG was the acronym for the “legendary arena.” It had only been 5 minutes since they sat down, and already Sheila felt exhausted. She used their newly arrived cocktails as an opportunity to raise a glass and cheers to, “New beginnings.” She internally cringed for being so cliché, but it was hard to think after Dylan had been launching information at her like she was in a batting cage. She welcomed any pause.
The break in conversation managed to distract Dylan from what they had been discussing and Sheila changed the conversation entirely to travel. “I love to travel,” Sheila tossed out there, “I’m dying to go to Italy, have you ever been?” Dylan hadn’t either, but it was on his list. This was promising; they still had some common interests. Dylan’s most recent vacation was for a bachelor party somewhere, Sheila missed the destination, but it sounded rugged. The party included shooting, hiking, camping, and foraging. A true Bear Grylls type adventure as Dylan was painting it.
“So this one night, we’re hiking in like pitch black in the mountains looking for fucking jaguars okay. Like real, dangerous as could be jaguars. My buddy is like all about adrenaline rushes so the whole weekend was a chest grabber. Like we honestly had no real idea what we were doing or where we were going so it took us like an hour to go maybe a quarter mile. Oh and my other buddy, he was like, lets take some shrooms before we go, so you can imagine we were all pretty out of it, but like totally aware.”
Sheila nodded along, her right fist under her chin holding her up on the bar, her left slowly, but firmly flowing martini liquid into her mouth. She counted and she hadn’t put the glass back down on the physical bar for at least 3 minutes. Her eyes stayed on Dylan’s ever waving hands as if he was conducting the symphony to match his midnight bro story.
Sheila didn’t realize how much she had browned out through his story until he reached what sounded like a climax, but was confirmed by the crescendo of both his hands rising up in triumph. “My buddy ends up sitting down on an ant hill and he didn’t even notice! I mean we’re out here looking for fucking jaguars and THIS GUY sits on an ant hill! Literally one of the craziest nights of my life.”
“Wow,” Sheila mouthed, her eyes doing their best to showcase shock and surprise at the punch line of this…joke? She honestly wasn’t sure what the anecdote was being used for in Dylan’s purview, but he was eager to tell it nonetheless. Dylan reached for his old fashioned and sucked down the liquor to quench what was likely a dry and tired throat. Sheila took another swig as well and then the oysters came down in between them on a silver tray lined with beaded ice and grainy, dark shells; a chilling interlude to Dylan’s performance.
Before those oysters came down, Sheila was debating an exit strategy keeping in mind she didn’t want to leave without a healthy buzz regardless if the conversation was literally running away from her on account of the Kenyan Olympian clearly controlling Dylan’s motor functions. Then she saw the wet, gelatinous inhabitants of those grainy, gray shells and found something new to be terrified of. Sheila’s face must have been reacting on its own accord because Dylan grabbed her now free right hand with a tenderness she wasn’t expecting and said, “Hey I know, they look crazy, but I think there’s a chance you might really like them if you give it a shot. At least that’s what someone told me before I tried them the first time and I’m glad I did.”
The sudden transition from overzealous storyteller to compassionate date surprised Sheila. It was honorably sweet he observed her terror and took action. She couldn’t leave yet and risk missing any other great surprises. Dylan continued to help Sheila by demonstrating how he eats the oyster. First, he took one of the tiny spoons and lifted some horseradish from its dish and delicately poured it over the translucent, fleshy goop. Next he squeezed some lemon, and finished it off with a generous tap of cocktail sauce. The shell now had a coalescence of mixed colors and textures, almost remarkably hiding the swimming body underneath. It almost looked like a bloody mary, but in shooter form. He lifted the shell from the ice tray, tipped it and his head back and let the condiment laden meat slide down his throat. He smiled as his head tilted back parallel and savored the flavors before saying, “Okay, your turn.”
Sheila rolled her eyes as if to say she was actually brave enough to do this without prodding. And she wanted to believe that too. She mimicked Dylan’s steps as quickly as she could to ensure she wouldn’t hesitate or spend too much time looking at the concoction before putting it in her mouth. Yes, it was silly that at this age she’d never tried an oyster before, but when Sheila said no to something, she rarely changed her mind. This was especially true when it came to food.
When she was 5 she stated very clearly to her parents that she did not, and would not, eat avocados. She didn’t like that their outside didn’t reflect their inside and felt like if we were meant to eat liars, we would have a lot less politicians due to cannibalism. It should be noted she also doesn’t eat cantaloupes or watermelon. The irony of disliking a tough exterior hiding a soft, delicate interior was lost on her until a decade later. Looking at these fruits was like looking into a mirror, but that didn’t matter. Because she was too proud to ever admit she’d never tried avocado, and even though eventually guacamole started looking really delicious, the green fruit would never touch her lips. Can you imagine how difficult it was to turn down avocado toast for an avid bruncher like herself? They were truly all the rage for several years of her formative twenties. It was difficult to be Sheila at times, but she accepted her faults and at least planned to be consistent with them.
In the case of the Cherry Point oyster, enough was enough and she believed no one would chide her for finally giving this shellfish a proper shot. It was the kind of food most people avoided to begin with, so her eating them would make her seem bold; a term she would happily welcome as a moniker. She had also made too much of a public stink about why she refused to eat avocados, including the time she had a 20 minute debate correlating the restaurant industry’s standard price for avocado toast to todays youth and their inability to maintain a saving account. It’s just green shit slathered on bread people! During this great avo debate, she felt backed into a corner (no doubt her lack of evidence or reason at the forefront of this) and churned out some incredibly worrisome, and MAGA-like statements alluding avocados should be removed entirely from the US because the majority are imported from Mexico. After an uncomfortable silence, she refused to continue the discussion, and honestly no one questioned it ever again.
Thinking, but not saying, “Bottoms up,” Sheila let the shell juice glide into her mouth and irrationally lost the ability to swallow. Half of the cocktail sauced, spicy slime went down, but a little bit was still left in her mouth, which forced her to chew. This was a mistake, but she grabbed what was left of her drink and used that to drain the rest down.
“So?” Dylan questioned as he grabbed another oyster and put it in his mouth. Sheila took a moment to decide, and she felt compelled to give a true answer. Did she like that? Did she want to try another to be sure? Was it worth so many years of being scared not to do it?
“I’m not sure. It was kind of spicy, slimy, and I really shouldn’t have tried to chew it. It gave me a weird Boba tea moment that was kind of cringey.” Sheila was happy to feel comfortable enough to be honest. Maybe it was the fact that Dylan appeared to let his guard down around her, or maybe he existed without any guard at all and just lived a life of pure sincerity. She had been thinking like “old” Sheila this whole time, and needed to give Dylan another shot before bailing.
Dylan smiled at her response and offered to make her another oyster.
Another round, or two, of cocktails later, the dozen oysters were long gone along with many of Sheila’s trepidations about Dylan. Maybe he needed time to ease in and that delay caused the erratic and nonsensical stories accompanied by dramatic, puppeteer hands. He was incredibly thought provoking and still maintained a sweetness that was not corny or forced. He’d hardly crossed the imaginary boundary between them by touching her hand or wiping cocktail sauce from the corner of her mouth. Which she did have at one point and he merely pointed it out to her without making her feel awkward for the mishap. At the moment the only touching they were doing was at the knee, as they both swiveled in their bar chairs trying to serve themselves some food. They had 4 shareable plates in front of them and were doing a dance similar to that of pet owners who allow their dogs to meet for the first time on leash. Kindly moving one hand under the others, they tried not to get tangled in the passing of plates. All the while their knees at work, trying to unravel the fabric between them.
Dylan leaned over to grab a piece of Ndjua toast and his hair grazed her lips in the process. It was sweet like coconut or manuka honey. God, he was hot wasn’t he? Sometimes Sheila wasn’t sure if her definition of hot was accurate or the majority vote, but in this case she felt like she was spot on. When his plate was properly full of the toast and its accouterments he leaned back to a normal position and pushed his hair back with his left hand, surveying the goods in front of him. Sheila casually licked the top of her lip, quite sure it was for him and not so much for her food, but for the sake of the moment surveyed her plate too.
They opted to share some of the appetizers and the burger because neither one of them could decide and neither one of them wanted to risk losing an opportunity to try nearly everything. Sheila grabbed the Ndjua toast first, which was a beautiful piece of sourdough bread layered with hollow nooks and soft, bouncy textures in between a perfectly toasted crust exterior. On top of this bed of bread heaven was the Ndjua, a Spanish style sausage that was spicy like chorizo and easily spreadable like butter. It was topped with a few shreds of pickled onion and a little honey. Now this was something Sheila loved and the reason she wanted to come here at all. Not only did she love bread, but the experience of eating it with a spicy, sweet and salty meat accompaniment…it felt deviant. It was decadent and almost seductive. It was perfect. No one in the area served anything like this, and it was shocking because it was so simple, but at the moment Cherry Point was the only one with Ndjua on the mind.
“Isn’t this honestly the most perfect food?” Sheila asked. She wasn’t sure how long she was having a moment of nirvana with her meat toast, but she worried it might have been too long and hoped Dylan was also too distracted to notice her emotional absence.
“It’s good for sure, but I feel like I’ve had something similar before. Really great though.” He casually replied as he shoved the rest of the toast carelessly into his mouth, hardly chewing it.
Sheila hated that she felt offended by his lack of euphoria. She wanted them both to float on that meat toast cloud of happiness together, but it turns out that was a bit too much to dream. She also really needed to stop getting offended when people didn’t like what she liked, and she was about to find out why.
As they continued to dine on whitefish dip and split Cherry Point’s infamous (and overpriced) burger, they found themselves on the topic of art. Sheila was thankful because she had actually minored in art history in college and had been dying to have a legitimate and educated discussion about art for awhile. Dylan also had a lot to say about art.
“Here’s what people say about art. They think modern art is weird. And they think things that evoke emotion are the only pieces worth discussing. I understand, because I create, but, I don’t look at art and say something other than ‘that’s well done’.”
Sheila had been in a food and martini high the last half hour or so, but regardless thought this date was moving in the right direction. Then Dylan tried to talk about art, and she hoped she had misheard him, but what she thought she heard was likely the dumbest set of sentences ever uttered. Quickly composing herself she decided to ask, “Oh, so do you paint?”
“Look anyone can grab a canvas and toss some paint on it. What I’m trying to do is different than that you know? Like really create something earth shattering. And I just don’t think that’s out there. How’s the burger?” Dylan grabbed his half and bit down through nearly half, letting a slippery onion slide out and hit his chin as he inhaled the rest of the solids.
“What are you creating exactly? Sorry, I’m just a little confused,” Sheila questioned as politely and ladylike as she could. Inside she was fuming at the pompous asshat that had probably only been to the Met once, and thought the experience made him qualified to speak about anything cultural. Much like how he thought treating his mouth like a garbage disposal made him qualified to review food.
“No, I don’t paint. And I don’t need to, to get art. I ideate. I develop. I listen to the world around me.”
Sheila opened her phone and pulled up a photo of one of her favorite paintings, showing it to Dylan.
“Art isn’t just about painting, you’re right about that, but can you really look at something like this and not find it beautiful or at least better than, ‘well done?’ If you look at these strokes you can see how it evokes some sort of chaos and uncertainty.”
Dylan grabbed her phone out of her hand and zoomed in and out with his greasy fingers. He stared for longer than Sheila expected and hoped he would come out of it with a small change of heart. She was wrong.
“It’s nice, I can see why someone like you would like it. But come on, it’s hard to find art that has the undertones of what you’re talking about that’s nothing more than just something crazy on a white canvas. We think we’re so abstract, but really everything we create is based off something else even if we don’t think it is.”
Sheila took a deep breath and spoke her next words as slow and calm as she could muster. “So you’re telling me everyone who creates or studies or curates gorgeous and timeless museums full of art, spanning centuries before you and I were even a thought in the universe, are people basically entertaining some sort of worthless hobby completely lacking in originality? Like everything they’re all doing is like the equivalent of singing a cover song at open mic night?”
Dylan exhaled a little laugh out of the side of his mouth and pushed his hair out of his face. “I get it, art is important to you. I’m not discounting the value of art. I just think you have a great appreciation for things once you know more about them. That’s why the art I appreciate so viscerally is music.”
Sheila felt relieved. He was a musician! And did he kind of admit he didn’t actually know anything about art? The creative mind works in so many ways, he didn’t need to like or understand the kind of art she was in to. Art came in many forms, and music was certainly one to behold as much as a Rembrandt. Dylan went on, “I appreciate it without knowing why, because I’m so connected to it.”
“What instrument do you play? The guitar? Are you in a band?” Sheila asked then finally took a bite of her burger. It was just as she remembered it. It was absolutely a step above any casual stand cheeseburger, with its velvety layers of cheese and premium meat grind and a decent, but not messy flow of juice. Yet it still tasted like the burgers volunteer dads would make at high school football games; simple and classic. The combination of childhood nostalgia and palate orgasm would normally be illegal, but thankfully this was just a supremely perfect burger.
“I play some guitar. I’ve been teaching myself the last couple months and it’s honestly been life changing. The way we look at things, like art, and the way we create as a people… Like I said before, originality is a farce and art will never match up to what it usually intends to replicate.”
Sheila let Dylan ramble while she plotted, again, how she would run out of here and never look back. Then Dylan would smile in between sentences full of words like, “cliché,” and “visceral.” Even “utilitarian” was uttered, but Sheila missed why. She decided it might be easier to tune him out and just focus on him. The way he looked while he was in passionate debate, albeit with himself, only made him hotter. And Sheila hated herself for thinking so. She truly never felt angrier with herself than in that moment, but Dylan might have been the hottest guy she had ever been on a date with. She knew it was petty, and knew it was completely against her personal code of conduct, but underneath her independent and headstrong façade, there was still a girl who wanted to be wanted by the hot guy every girl wanted to be with.
“…See this is why I don’t appreciate art even though I want to. I’m a very tough customer when it comes to something that really intrigues me.”
Dylan closed his argument and took a sip of water then checked his phone for the time. He didn’t seem to be waiting for a response. He probably felt satisfied with himself. It was clear to Sheila he was using arrogance as a deflective tool. Was he a deflective tool?
“Hey do you want to get the check and maybe have another drink at my apartment? I’m pretty close by and I remember you said you like bourbon and I have a bottle of Pappy.”
“Van Winkle?” Dylan’s whole body lit up, lifting him out of his barstool slump.
“Oh so you know him. I know you’re a tough customer, but if it intrigues you…”
“Yes. 100% yes.” Dylan looked for the bartender and waived for the check. Sheila decided to excuse herself to go to the bathroom while Dylan paid the check. Standing up she realized she was drunker than she thought, but sober enough to keep the invitation back to her house. She chose tonight to change things up, to be more optimistic, and to be less restrictive with men. Dylan was nice and talkative and he was paying for the meal. How much more did she need right now?
Sheila looked down and realized the bottle of prosecco was empty and her Betch Please glass was greasy with makeup fingerprints. She took the final drops from the glass into her mouth and opened the fridge to open a second. Her phone vibrated on the counter nearby. Looking over, Sheila realized the time and her friend Emily would be over within minutes to pick her up for the party. Sheila poured one more glass and then ran into her bedroom to throw on her birthday outfit.
Her neon green, consignment dress lay on her bed and Sheila took a moment to stare at it one more time. This time with more disappointment than the last. She had originally ordered an obscenely overpriced silk slip dress from Revolve (thanks Instagram ads), but thanks to her obtuse hips and small chest, the dress was more lackluster than a Sbarro pizza slice. Sheila was crazy with excitement when she pressed submit order. It was the kind of fashionable perfection that would tell everyone she was 30 and absolutely fabulous. Then it arrived, after paying $50 in expedited shipping no less, and there was simply no hope. There’s a harsh reality that befalls you when you realize you’re on the negative end of a poor internet purchase. Sheila spent 48 hours believing this dress would elicit a substantial amount of flattering reactions. Her birthday Instagram posts would live in infamy and that dress would be the catalyst. But the universe or her monthly horoscope had other plans and her dress was anything but a dream, thus resulting in Sheila searching through her closet to find an old throwback to wear to her god damn 30th birthday party.
This neon green dress hadn’t been seen or photographed in at least 5 years, which almost made it non-existent in social media years. She originally purchased it for her cousins’ 30th birthday at a prominent New Jersey nightclub. The dress didn’t scream club, but did send the message Sheila had a body to be looked at. Anything else in her closet seemed too young, or too safe. It was the neon color that sold Sheila, but the dress might have been the real reason she was pre-gamming so hard.
Her buzzer rang and Sheila hurried to the door to unlock and buzz Emily in. As Sheila was pouring Emily her own glass of prosecco, she burst through the door with an overnight bag and a gift bag. Emily was bubbly, without restraint, and blonde. Sheila’s polar opposite, but closest friend since she moved to New York 10 years prior.
“Happy Birthday!!! This is for you, and I’ll take that.” Emily and Sheila traded gift bag for prosecco glass. They clinked glasses and each took a big gulp of bubbly goodness.
“Okay hurry and open that, because we gotta go. Also you look unreal, don’t question it because I know you are. Just inhale the pos vibes, and exhale the shit you stir up in your head. I promise people are going to lose it over this, and who cares if they don’t because you’re fucking 30 and fuck everyone.”
Sheila did feel a little better having Emily there. She knew she wasn’t entering 30 alone even if her perfect man wasn’t on the horizon. She opened up the bright blue gift bag overflowing with bright pink paper and pulled out a paper photo of Prince. Sheila was horrified, but couldn’t help but laugh.
“I thought we could burn it and like exercise the demons of your 20s past so your 30s could have a fresh start. Like a little 20s funeral you know?” Emily looked at Sheila with hope and then pulled out a lighter.
Emily was one of the only people who knew how her first and only date with Dylan went. It wasn’t that Sheila was embarrassed, but she wasn’t excited to share details of a failure after she was so hopeful at the start of their Bumble engagement. She really shouldn’t have told so many people at work about the date in the first place.
The truth was, when Sheila took Dylan back to her apartment, she regretted it the moment her door closed. The few blocks back to her place in the chill 40 degree weather set her straight, and while she had every right to turn around to him and say, “I’m actually tired, can we rain check?” She felt like she was obligated to see this through. Like all the years of being told, “No one likes a dick tease,” was so embedded in her that she couldn’t even think of rescinding a poorly thought out invitation to her bed. Men changed their minds all the time. First they liked you, then they didn’t want to call you back or they found someone better. But she didn’t want to get into that at the moment so instead she unlocked her door and begrudgingly let him make himself at home.
As promised she poured two, neat glasses of Pappy Van Winkle and let this sloppy seduction continue. Dylan asked to turn on some music and once connected to the Bluetooth speaker, started Prince’s Purple Rain soundtrack. After a few minutes listening side by side on her couch, Dylan made the first move and pulled her in for a kiss. He really liked kissing. He kissed her so passionately she thought she was a cast member on Grey’s Anatomy. Sheila couldn’t take it anymore so she rolled over and straddled him on the couch, trying as quickly and sensitively to take off his flannel and then his shirt. She needed to get this show on the road and if his kisses proved anything, she wasn’t psyched about the rest of the impending performance. Eventually, Dylan got the hint and took the lead in their couch dance. Sheila lay there looking at her ceiling thinking about the things she had to do tomorrow, and looked down every now and again at his chiseled abs. They were really great actually. She should have enjoyed this, but it was mediocre and worse, meaningless. She had a better time with that burger squished between her two hands, letting beef drippings glide down the side of her wrist.
Once he finished, they stayed on the couch in silence, and in Sheila’s opinion, a very uncomfortable position. Prince’s music continued to engulf the room over the speaker and Dylan’s head was sharp on Sheila’s belly with one foot on the couch and the other on the floor. Meanwhile, Sheila’s legs were crossed underneath his shoulders, flayed wide open. Right before she was about to move, Dylan spoke.
“You show me an art piece that evokes the same emotion that Purple Rain did! Then maybe I’ll get what ‘art’ is.” Dylan actually used air quotes with the word art. And with that last declarative statement, Sheila used all her leg strength and pushed Dylan up and face first onto the carpet of her living room.
“I’d like you to go.” Sheila said, standing naked and dominant over the crumpled Dylan, who was still wearing socks. Dylan didn’t even question it. He did his stupid hair push, grabbed his clothes off the floor, and then stood up to get dressed.
Sheila laid back down on her couch and took another sip of glorious bourbon she had won in a work raffle and set the glass on her chest. Maybe her mindset about men didn’t need to change. It was her confidence that her rejection reasons were valid that needed to be uplifted. Her checklist might have been unreasonable, but her gut intuition was not. She should have ran for the door when she had a chance with Dylan, but she let the insecure voices of fearful loneliness get the better of her.
Standing with Emily in her kitchen now, she happily lit the picture of Prince on fire and watched as he and his motorcycle crumpled up in her kitchen sink. Goodbye 20-year-old Sheila. You’re fucking 30, and here’s to life and the orgasms getting better from here.
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