Money

I’m writing this post while waiting for a Tinder message. It’s Tuesday afternoon, nine days since I met R. She’s in the middle of a divorce, has two kids, is ‘nesting.’ This means that R. and her soon-to-be ex have one apartment where their kids live full time, and a second apartment that each of them occupies in turn, according to their custody agreement.

We met at a cocktail bar in her neighborhood, had a drink, and then she invited me to come home with her. To the apartment without the kids, obviously. Not for sex, she said, but to spend some time with each other in a quieter place than the bar.

I liked the idea, so I paid for our drinks, and we got my bike from the corner and walked the few blocks to her place. I was a little overdressed, I’d brought a sweatshirt, the nice one I sometimes wear on dates, made of a soft, cream-colored cotton. I got it in the spring of 2023 at a little store in Nolita, I think for $110. Overdressed—not in the sense that this was too nice for the date, but in the sense that it was still summer. So I had it around my neck, like a preppy in an eighties movie.

The apartment was pleasant. There were no decorations and not much furniture, and this made for an appealing, neutral atmosphere. I liked R. well enough but we didn’t have that much in common, and I was glad not to be surrounded by her stuff, not to see all the books that wouldn’t have interested me, etc.

It was hot, there was no AC. I liked that, too. Before sitting down with R. on her couch I took the sweatshirt off from around my neck.

The second half of our date didn’t last long. On the walk to her place I’d been talking about the life of Caravaggio. I continued this; the murder of Ranuccio Tommasoni, the flight from Rome to Naples and on to Sicily and Malta, the failed attempt to join the Maltese order in the hope that this would bring a pardon from the pope, and finally the death of the artist at Porto Ercole. We kissed a bit, and talked some more, and then she said it was time for me to leave.

By now you may have guessed where this is going—I left the apartment without my sweatshirt. I walked with my bike for a while, stopped at a deli for plantain chips and a Pellegrino, and wrote to R. to thank her for inviting me over and to say I’d be glad to see her again. Then I got on my bike. As soon as I started riding, I remembered the sweatshirt. I turned around and went back to the bar to make sure it wasn’t there. It wasn’t. I wrote another message to R.

oh dear, apologies, I may have left my shirt at your place?

That was on Sunday, September 2, at 11:26pm.

I wrote again the next day, late in the afternoon, not mentioning the sweatshirt. I suspected she didn’t want to see me again, and wasn’t looking forward to breaking that news and also having to deal with the sweatshirt, so I tried to convey that her rejection wasn’t going to be a problem.

hi there, by the way, just wanted to let you know that I enjoyed meeting you last night, but if you’re not inclined to see me again, no hard feelings at all, I’m relaxed about these things

She replied on Tuesday, confirming my suspicion that she didn’t want to go on another date, and telling me that she’d think about a place to leave my shirt. On Thursday afternoon I tried again.

hi R., hope your week is going well. one thought about my shirt, you might drop it off at a dry cleaner, and give them my name as the person who will pay and pick it up?

and then you would just have to give me a ticket number, maybe

I disliked the idea, because I didn’t want to pay $12 or whatever dry cleaning would cost, but still it seemed wise to propose something. She replied in the evening, saying this sounded good, and that she would do it the following day, Friday. But then on Friday she wrote to say she was too busy, and that she’d do it Monday instead.

No word from her on Monday (yesterday), so I wrote again, at 9:09pm.

hey R., it occurs to me that I’m free all day tomorrow, could come to [name of neighborhood redacted] any time, if you have a free moment or even if you wanted to leave my shirt on your stoop at a predetermined time

in case you haven’t had a chance to drop off yet

*

Of course it was annoying for R. that I left my sweatshirt at her place. But at some point I started to wonder if she might also be annoyed that I wanted to get it back.

*

It’s rare for me to meet someone whose income isn’t significantly higher than mine. In the case of R. I’d guess she makes at least six and maybe eight times what I make as an adjunct professor. She’s a normal, successful, professional woman in New York. She has clients, sends emails, has meetings on Zoom, probably travels sometimes, all that stuff.

I want to say that no one in the dating world I’m a part of talks about money, but that wouldn’t be true. Just two days ago another date complained to me about the expense of her son’s hockey gear. I’m convinced it’s the most expensive of all sports, she told me. I suggested golf or skiing, but then shrugged, “No, I’m sure you’re right.”

I’m convinced it’s the most expensive of all sports. It would be unkind to call this a humblebrag, it’s a more a display of mild exasperation, but implicit in the statement is another statement—and I can afford it.

*

These women who can afford their divorces and neutral apartments and hockey gear for their teenage boys can also afford something else, namely, to date an adjunct professor. A woman who makes only two or three times what I make might hesitate. At that income level you at least want someone who can hold his own. A provider would be a godsend. R. and her peers have no such need. What I have to do is be amusing and attractive, and presentable. And I have to pick up the tab on the first date.¹

But listen up, ladies. My wardrobe is not deep.

*

Post-script. Just as I was finishing the above, I received the messsage with the address of the dry cleaner and the ticket number. Thank you, R. I’m sorry for having begun to doubt.

1. For the most part this is no problem, but I don’t like it if someone runs up the bill by requesting a specific gin or vodka in her martini. And if someone, after one drink, wants a full meal, or really anything more than fries, I won’t be thrilled with that, either. But two rounds of drinks and an order of fries, that’s the ante.