I’m on a first date. Is it a date? It’s not really clear. I like to negotiate my way into these half-dates, these maybe-romances, by meeting friends of friends for drinks of drinks.
I haven’t seen him in a month, maybe two. He is there already, his back to me, halfway through his beer. He is on a corner at the bar, and when he sees me, his face brightens, and he pulls a stool over for at me, so I am at an awkward angle between him and the bar and a scotch (he remembered).
We don’t really know each other at all. He has five years on me and thirteen inches. His thick hair is edged with white, but only in the back he shows me. I can’t decide if he is handsome, or handsome to me. I drink more.
He overhears the girls next to us discussing Foursquare. We both take out our smartphones, and the conversation turns to new media, to web apps, to venture capitalism.
“You know, they’re testing a new BlackBerry Foursquare app,” he tells me.
“I do know,” I smile. “I’m one of the first hundred beta testers.” I show him the app.
He loses his cool. “God that’s hot.”
And we made out. Because that’s what young tech media types do these days. And that, apparently, is how you woo friends of fiends.