I left the office at seven, turning out the lights behind me. I was the last one to leave. Always was. I bypassed the subway and started in on my ten-block walk. I’d done it plenty of times before. I liked to be out on the street in New York. No matter the time of day, it buzzed with an excitement and hurried tempo that matched my own. It made me feel like I was part of something. Made me feel normal.

Slowing down as I got within eyesight of my building, I decided to stop and get groceries for dinner. Contrary to the bachelor stigma, I didn’t eat takeout every night. Not even every other night. Growing up where the only chef on hand was Boyardee and ramen noodles were considered a weekly staple, I had been eager to start teaching myself to cook as soon as I got my own place. It was my favorite part of the day.

Beer on the counter, knife in hand, and an array of ingredients scattered around me. Light music played from my phone and all of it was almost enough to make me forget that I was alone.

Once the fish was in the oven and the rice and vegetables were cooking on top of the stove, I grabbed my beer and the mail stack and sat down in front of the TV. A few bills from stone age companies that refused to go paperless, junk mail, and on the bottom a crème envelope with Mr. Court Adams written in fancy penmanship. Flipping the heavy cardstock over, the Connecticut address stared up at me.

I pulled out the invitation and read it over, noting the date and time for Mr. and Mrs. Allen Sterling’s reception take two. There was no way I could get out of going even if I wanted to. Allen, for all his bullshit, had been a faithful client and snubbing him wouldn’t look good on me or the company. I cared less about how it’d look for me, but Harrison and Mac had been good to me giving me a job right out of college and letting me work my way up. My boss Teddy Harrison hadn’t even batted an eye when I’d asked to take on one of their biggest accounts, Allen Sterling.

Tossing the invitation aside, I grabbed my laptop from the coffee table in front of me and opened it. I put the reception on my calendar and sent an email to our company travel agent to make sure my next trip coincided and let her know that I’d be staying through the weekend.

With nothing left to do but wait for my food to finish cooking, I picked up my phone and scrolled back through the last texts from Bianca. Sending her a photo of myself had been fun. I wasn’t one for sexting in general, maybe because my relationships went straight from drinks or dinner back to her place and they ended when I walked out the door. The buildup was fun, exciting even.

God, I’d loved to have seen Bianca’s reaction. Did she like what she saw? I’d been with enough women to know they generally did, but Bianca was barely a woman.

I pulled up my Facebook account for maybe the third time in the past month and typed her name in the search bar. Surprisingly, I was greeted with a selfie of Bianca. I hadn’t pegged her as the type to take selfies. She stared into the camera, unsmiling. She was done up and from what I could tell of the background of the photo, she was at a bar. People sitting at tables, beer bottles scattered around, but no one was looking in the direction of the camera.

Had she taken this photo in a happy moment or sad? Was she feeling alone even though she was out surrounded by people? Without thinking I sent her a text. It was the first time I’d initiated contact and I hoped I wasn’t coming across as the creepy old guy.

Me: How’d the sexting go?

Bianca: I chickened out.

The relief that coursed through me was unsettling. I didn’t like the idea of sweet Bianca sending sexy messages to Todd or anyone else. Still I wanted her to feel confident enough to be able to when the time was right.

Me: You’ll have plenty of other opportunities. Guys are pretty much always up for a good sexy text message.

Bianca: We’re at the library studying so probably not the best moment.

Me: You’re with Tom?

I got a kick out of getting his name wrong and the reaction it stirred in Bianca.

Bianca: Todd. His name is Todd. Do you have some sort of short term memory problem? We’re hanging out at the library with a few other people.

Me: My memory is just fine for things worth remembering. Did he ask you?

Bianca: Yes.

Me: And you’re actually studying - that’s not code for making out or something?

Bianca: Yes, we’re actually studying. I have a diffey-q test tomorrow.

Me: What did you wear?

Bianca: Leggings, t-shirt, flip flops. We’re studying I didn’t think dressing up was a requirement.

Me: It’s always a requirement if you’re looking to get laid. What’s he wearing?

Bianca: Jeans and a polo shirt.

Of-fucking-course he was wearing a polo shirt.

Me: Is he wearing sneakers?

Bianca: This is the strangest conversation I’ve ever had over text. No, he’s wearing loafers.

Me: So, he’s more dressed up than you?

Bianca: Yeah, I guess so

Me: Don’t ever let the guy be more dressed up than you. However masochistic and unfair it is, men want a trophy to look good on their arm first and foremost.

Okay that wasn’t strictly true. I tended to prefer my women mussed and undone – it felt more honest. More real. But men like Todd who grew up with money and worked in highly revered professions like doctors or CEOs lived in an archaic world where women were meant to look pretty and do as they were told. Maybe that was harsh and maybe it wasn’t even true. But it looked true for all I’d seen and if we were airing on the side of caution here it was better to be dressed up than down.

Bianca: Ugh, my brain hurts.

Me: He invited you to do something two nights in a row. He seems to like you regardless of his moving slower than a tortoise. Now put your phone away and get to work on making physical contact. Footsie under the table? If you’re sitting next to him make sure your legs are touching – something. Don’t leave that library until you’ve touched him intimately.

Bianca: Aye, aye.

Me: I like it. You can call me captain anytime

As I sent the last text the timer on the oven went off. With a sigh I placed my phone on the coffee table and moved to plate my dinner. Back to reality. Alone.