My friends all said that I needed some of the hair of the dog that bit me. By that, they meant another guy. More dates.

I insisted that what I actually needed was more uninterrupted time at work and then copious amounts of ice cream at home with some Netflix.

That was definitely the way I’d rather spend the precious few hours I got at home.

But they won. They usually did. I wasn’t one of those people able to resist peer pressure for very long.

“So... I’m sorry, what was your name again?” I said.

“Jeff,” he said.

I don’t know how they did it, but Suzy, Sharon, and Lindsay had found me not one, but three guys to go out with over the last couple of weeks.

The first two had been rather disastrous. The first guy, Myron, had taken me bowling. It started out as fun, but then got weird.

Why?

Because I started beating him. I wasn’t that good at bowling. A spare or two was all I could ever manage. He was worse. And what made it worse? Him thinking he was much better than he was.

Then, mostly jokingly, I suggested I get the manager to put the rails up. No more gutter balls, everyone’s a winner, everyone has fun. Right?

Wrong.

He refused. Then he blamed me for psyching him out when he put literally every throw after that in the gutter.

When we finished the night he said to me, “It’s no wonder you’re single.” Then he left without even a firm and businesslike handshake.

He was a brother of one of Sharon’s work friends. And I got the feeling I knew why he was still single, too.

So far Jeff seemed nice, though. He met me at my train station. He took me down close to the Village. There was some new bar or something he wanted to try, and I agreed.

“So... What is it you do?” I said.

Jeff was cute, I had to give him that. A bit more hipster than I normally went for, but maybe that was a good thing. He wore a grey vest with a button-down shirt on underneath, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows like he was some old time cardsharp.

He kept his stubble carefully manicured, and his hair was perfectly tousled in a way that made me wonder if he’d taken more time to prepare for this date in front of the mirror than I had.

Still, this promised to be better than not only that first disaster of a date but also the second.

“I’m a mixologist,” he said. He said it as though I should find it impressive.

I might have, if I had any clue what he meant. And he also said it as though I should know. As though if I let it slip that I didn’t he might think me a little bit dull.

Hey, at least he’s cute!

Cute could get you pretty far in this world, if you played your cards right.

“Yeah,” he continued, “I don’t mean to brag or anything. But I came up with the Hollywood Hooker.”

I almost stopped there in the street, the name was so bizarre. “Oh?”

Still not as bad as that second date. Or the first. So far.

“Yeah, it’s basically a dry gin martini but with tomato juice and a bit of basil on top for garnish. Shh, don’t tell anyone,” he said. I must also add that he said it with a conspiratorial wink, as though he revealed that he wrote all of Ed Sheeran’s songs or something.

Then it hit me, “Oh, a bartender.”

Also, that drink sounded vile. Not that I was much of a martini girl in the first place. But with tomato juice and basil? Eww!

This time Jeff did stop. His lips pressed into a thin line, almost disappearing in his well-manicured stubble. “No, not a bartender. That’s a job. What I do is a life, okay?”

He reached out and took one of my hands. He didn’t exactly squeeze hard, but when I tried removing it he held on.

“That’s interesting, really,” I said. He’s cute. Just remember how cute he is. And holding hands isn’t so bad, is it? “So we’re going to, like, check out the competition at this new place, then?”

We kept walking.

“Yeah, right,” Jeff said, “Pff, the team they have at this place can barely draw a beer without it being half head. No, my buddy’s band is playing there tonight. You’ll like them. They’re this mix of screamo, black metal, and like Early 2000s pop, but good.”

I cringed on the inside. And maybe the outside a little. But Jeff was too busy talking about this horror show of a band to notice.

I tried to think on the positive side: Isn’t it nice that he wants to support his friends? He probably thinks they’re terrible, too. But that’s what friends are for, right?

Also: Still not as bad as that second one. And hey, maybe I’ll like it. Can’t knock it till you’ve tried it, right?

I felt as though I probably could knock it without trying it and not come too far from the mark in the end.

But already in the back of my head I started thinking of ways to get out of this. Office emergency, family emergency, oops I left the oven on I think emergency...

“Yeah, we’re just a couple blocks away. Don’t you just love walking? I love how walkable the city is,” Jeff said.

I’d offered to go Dutch on a cab with him to this place from the subway, but he declined. Even though we had to go a good 12 blocks. I guess this was how he managed to fit into those skinny jeans. I wasn’t certain I could fit in them.

For that matter, I wasn’t certain they were actually men’s jeans that he wore.

That second date came courtesy of Lindsay. They worked in the same office, but different departments.

“You’ll love him, Rach,” Lindsay said, “He’s funny! So funny!”

She remained cagey on any other aspect of this guy, physical or otherwise.

I met Mr. Funny in Times Square, at his suggestion. At the Hard Rock Café. He was 10 minutes late when his cab pulled up. And I guess Lindsay showed him my picture or something because when he got out of the taxi he waved me over.

“Can you spot me $15? Actually, better make it $20. This guy deserves a good tip!”

I wanted to end it right then and there. Nip it in the bud before it started. But I also didn’t want to make things awkward at work for Lindsay. I’m a human doormat, apparently.

I dug a $20 out of my wallet and handed it over to the driver, who was giving my date a funny look.

“What?” Mr. Funny said, “I’m buying dinner. This is my way of going Dutch!”

It was a B plot line from Seinfeld or something. I almost looked for rolling cameras. Almost.

Being dinnertime on a busy night, I thought he would have made a reservation. He didn’t. When we got to the hostess he kept muttering about the power of two! And how that always got him a table on all his other dates right away.

A mean part of me wanted to say that going to dinner with your mom didn’t count as a date, but I bit my tongue.

We then waited for 45 minutes in the lobby for a table when he insisted on staying.

There I learned he was 41 and that yes, he did indeed live with his mother. To save on rent money in the city. He had the second largest collection of unopened Frosted Flakes boxes in the world. I kid you not.

Then I also noticed a rather large red what I thought was ketchup stain on his white office shirt. Which also had a pocket protector.

When he learned what I did, he smiled and said, “Oh man, I could talk your ear off for hours about Frosted Flakes marketing campaigns and Tony the Tiger.”

And he did. For the rest of the date, even after we sat down. Even while he ate his double order of spaghetti and meatballs.

I’d lost my appetite, and only picked at a couple of the fries that came with my burger (out of which I took a single, polite bite). I would’ve eaten more if I knew what was coming next.

The waitress came over and set the bill down. He glanced at it awkwardly then looked away at a guitar hanging in a display case.

My hero, I thought. I picked up the little plastic folder and pulled the slip out of it. As I suspected, his double helping cost twice as much. Still, Dutch was Dutch.

‘Your half is $25,” I said.

He scratched at the back of his head, leaning forward a little so I got a good look at his developing bald spot, his mouth stretched into a fake smile.

Then he shifted over and pulled his wallet and a good amount of lint from an overworked pair of slacks. He opened the billfold, still smiling.

He laughed a little, then he showed me an empty wallet. “Can you spot me again? I forgot to hit up the ATM on my way here.”

I looked down at my mostly uneaten burger and fries, thought about asking for a box to take them home. But I knew that as soon as I pulled them from the fridge I would remember Mr. Funny and this disaster of a date.

“Sure,” I said. I pulled my Visa out of my wallet. The waitress, who’d hung nearby, gave me a sympathetic look and whispered to me not to worry about tipping her. I did anyway, and I thought that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

“Share a taxi?” Mr. Funny asked outside.

I told him I wasn’t going the same way. And being Times Square in the early evening it was impossible to get a cab anyway. I walked up a couple blocks, hoping he might get the hint. He didn’t.

I finally did hail a cab. I started climbing in, but he held the door.

“That was fun! We should do it again!” he said. “Hug?”

Anything to end this faster, I thought.

It was the most awkward hug of my life. I tried to keep our bodies from actually touching. I saw him go for the kiss and turned my face away at the last moment. His rather wet lips pressed against my cheek for a disturbingly stretched moment.

He waved when the taxi pulled away from the curb.

The driver even looked back through the divider and said, “You okay, lady?”

That was my second of two terrible dates. One more and I had a hat trick. And I did have to say one thing, I think they definitely helped me realize that there was nothing wrong with being single.

I tried once more to pull my hand out of Jeff’s. His fingers tightened momentarily against the force I exerted, holding me fast.

“Yeah, here it is!” he said, nodding ahead.

I looked around. We’d managed to cover those few blocks while I remembered that second bad first date. I also found I recognized the area.

“Hey, that bar Doolie’s isn’t far from here, is it? They have some good trivia,” I said. I smiled at that memory before the hurt set in again.

Was it bad that I wished that even, despite everything, it was Neil holding my hand while we walked down the street?

Jeff shrugged, “I think there’s some dive around here called that. Yeah, you wouldn’t catch me dead at a place like that. Trust me, this is lightyears better than any place like that.”

Something like music but not came from the bar up ahead. A bar called Shucked Oysters.

“What a dumb name,” Jeff said.

“Yeah,” I replied, happy that we could finally agree on something. I just hoped that this place hadn’t yet heard of the Hollywood Hooker so that he wouldn’t order one for me.

I was actually cautiously optimistic at first. The place was laden with 70s irony, faux-wood panelling, a bar lifted straight out of Cheers, at least two jukeboxes competing with the band on stage.

And hey, he let go of my hand.

I guess my expectations were pretty low at this point.

But Jeff at least took us to a somewhat quiet table. I ordered a white wine and he got a gin and tonic. Both of which he insisted on paying for right away.

We talked for a bit, and the wine definitely helped loosen things up. Still, it all felt empty to me. Like I was just acting, going through the motions.

I mean, Jeff definitely was cute. I would dance with him at a club, especially since a club would be too loud for me to hear him speak. But I definitely didn’t want a second date.

But I intended on telling Suzy thanks for setting me up with him. I also delighted in the idea of telling all three that now that they’d each had a go at match-matching me to please give it a rest for, oh, I don’t know, the rest of my life.

We made small talk. Mostly Jeff talking about how hard it was to keep current as a mixologist. I refrained from giggling at the term mixologist and answered the few questions he put to me about myself.

“You know, you’re pretty cute,” Jeff said.

“Thanks. You’re not so hard on the eyes, yourself,” I said. I rolled the stem of my wine glass between my palms. The glass was, sadly, empty.

“But, yeah,” he said, “You know, I’m just not feeling this. Us, I mean. You want to get out of here?”

At this I smiled, “Yes! Thank you. I definitely am not ready for a relationship. Even though you’re cute and all.”

“Yeah, honesty’s refreshing isn’t it?”

We left the Shucked Oyster and walked maybe a block. It was surprisingly quiet and empty on the street outside. I guess this particular hipster bar hadn’t opened in quite the right location.

I realized that, unconsciously, I’d moved us closer in the direction of where I thought Doolie’s was.

“Well, I’m going to catch a cab. Thanks for the night out,” I said. I knew we were close to Doolie’s. I wondered if they had trivia going again. That might be fun.

And I could sit in there and wallow in my memories with no one I knew to judge me, either.

Then he grabbed my hand again.

“Hey, wait up,” he said, “The night doesn’t have to end yet.”

I smiled, feeling more than a little wary, “What do you mean? I thought we both agreed there was nothing here.”

Suddenly a second date with Mr. Funny didn’t seem so bad.

“Yeah, nothing but some mutual physical attraction. Why don’t we get that out of our systems, if you know what I mean?”

I tried as polite and disinterested smile as I could manage, “Thanks, but no thanks.” I became acutely aware of just how deserted this stretch of street was.

I tried pulling my hand back again. This time he tightened down on my wrist painfully. And he yanked me close. I could smell the gin on his breath.

“I bought you a drink! You’re attracted to me! You said so yourself. What the hell is your problem?” Jeff said, his teeth clenched together. He wasn’t so cute anymore. And when had he gotten so strong?

“My problem is you. Now let me go!”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” he said. Then he started dragging me off the street, down a narrow alley. All the windows in the buildings on either side were dark, the fire escape balconies and stairways zig-zagging back and forth in the darkness.

“Help!” I screamed. I yanked against his grip, but I couldn’t break free.