I was in the midst of a particularly long in-between boyfriends stretch when a friend of a friend asked me for drinks at my favorite local neighborhood bar. He was a pudgy foreign guy who worked in finance and whose cockiness masked some major insecurities — the least of which, I’m sure, was the growing bald spot he’d developed at 30.
I went anyway, trudging the three blocks to the bar through the winter slush. Hey, I had nothing to lose — maybe the arrogance would reveal itself as charm or humor or self-deprecation, and anyway I’ve always had a thing for know-it-alls, I reasoned. Plus, I really liked that little bar, with its candles and plush couches. It would be nice to go on a date with someone I actually like there someday, I thought. Maybe this is the next best thing.
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