He watched her unlock the bike, swing a leg over, and pedal off into the wet, orange-lit street. He pulled out his flip phone. No texts. No missed calls. Just the quiet thrill of having absolutely no proof that any of it had happened except the memory—which, as Eternal Sunshine taught him, was the only thing that ever really mattered.
“Leo?” she asked, sliding into the seat across from him. Up close, she had a tiny scar on her chin. He noticed everything.
They talked for three hours. About how the L train was always broken. About the new Arcade Fire album. About how she’d once delivered a package to the actual Beastie Boys’ studio and pretended to be calm. About how he was writing a short story about a man who wakes up as his own voicemail greeting. blind dating 2006
“Well,” she said, pulling up her hood. “This is the part where one of us says we should do this again , and then we both text each other three days later with a vague ‘how’s it going?’”
“So let’s skip that,” Leo said. His heart was doing something weird. “Let’s just agree on a second date. Right now. Tomorrow. There’s a diner on 24th that does pie until 2 AM.” He watched her unlock the bike, swing a
He thought. “ Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind . The first time I saw it, I cried in the theater and pretended I had allergies.”
“Yeah,” he said, surprised. “That exact one.” No missed calls
They ordered. She got a chamomile tea (un-ironic, he noted). He got a black coffee. The first five minutes were the usual landmines: What do you do? (She was a bike messenger and a part-time darkroom technician. He was a temp at a publishing house.) Where do you live? (She had a studio in Williamsburg before Williamsburg was a punchline. He had a shared walk-up in the East Village.)