3. PAUL

Iwoke up to see the morning sun filtering through the blinds of my small studio apartment’s only window. Gentle rays cast warm hues across the worn hardwood floor through which I could hear my downstairs neighbor and her kids shouting at each other.

Outside, Harlem was already full of life: taxi horns, shouted voices, and storefront shutters opening. The city was long past beginning to stir – it was more like an orchestra starting up, but still somewhere from its daytime crescendo.

I rose naked from my tangle of sheets, and the cool air fluttered over my skinny, naked shape. The cluttered space, full of books, sneakers, and piles of clothes, I hardly noticed anymore. It was so small, barely twenty-five feet by twenty, that it was kind of inevitable, but hardly anyone ever came here, so it didn’t matter too much.

I went into the minuscule bathroom to begin my morning ablutions before I went to work. The steam from the shower enveloped the space within seconds of turning the faucet on to let the water run hot.

As I stepped inside the cubicle – so small that even my slim body’s shoulders touched the sides – the torrent from the showerhead covered me in its comforting warmth. The floral scent of shampoo filled the space. With closed eyes, I worked it into my hair and let my thoughts drift toward going to London with Jack.

I wondered what kind of experience it would be. I liked Jack, everyone did, but it was another thing to be going away for some time – I did not yet even know how long – with your boss.

I guessed he would be sociable, but maybe he might be distant, too. Would we be staying in the same hotel, or would he stay somewhere grand, and I would be in the cheap place on the other side of the city?

Having showered and dressed, I stepped out into the bustling streets of Harlem; I felt good, though excited. Dawdling toward the 125th Street subway station, I googled “Things To Do In London.”

Some hipster website ignored the Tower or Buckingham Palace but recommended flower shopping on Columbia Road market, hopping between “the world’s greatest food stalls” in Borough Market, “getting lost on the ancient wilderness of Hampstead Heath.” The size and scope of the city seemed so huge.

I lost my internet connection on the subway and couldn’t log back in to the transport network’s wi-fi at the stations. So instead, I gazed into other commuters’ faces, dreaming of my adventure ahead. I pictured Jack and me together in London, walking the streets and getting something to eat from those stalls, staring at the old buildings, just being there.

As the 6 train hurtled Downtown, my thoughts drifted to my dating life. My experiences on Tinder had been a bit of a swipe-left disaster. Only three women had responded to me much: Rachel, Katie, and Jaida. Their profiles had caught my eye, but as with everyone else on the app, each was presenting a curated version of themselves, too perfect to be true.

Rachel’s profile exuded confidence and charisma. Her photos were filled with adventurous escapades – rock climbing! – and infectious, bright-white smiles. But when we met, she talked endlessly not of happiness and freedom but of my salary and career ambitions. Our date ended with polite goodbyes and promises to be in touch – a promise neither of us kept.

Katie was a different story. Her photos captured bookish intelligence, quiet contemplation, and a natural-looking elegance. She wanted the world to see her as a thinker and a dreamer.

But when we met, I couldn’t find much of a sense of humor. In fact, for once, the person was in the flesh as they made out they were online: way too serious, clever but not many laughs.

And then there was Jaida – radiant and vibrant, her image and clothing all color and knowing energy. She talked about hot yoga and eating raw. She told me that she was a vegan but then insisted on eating some of my cheeseburger. “Not the meat!” she cried as she bit straight into it. At the end, she said to me, without batting an eyelid, “You’re a cute boy, Paul, but really I am looking for more of a man.”

“Aren’t we all?” I’d joked, and she gave me a weird look and made her excuses to leave.

I sometimes said stupid things like this. Some women had said this was why they didn’t want to date me: I was too much of a dork. I wasn’t tall enough. Sometimes even I didn’t earn enough. “I require 150k minimum,” one woman had messaged me. She looked like she worked at a Walgreens, though.

I was not a guy that women chose. And of course, who was to say that maybe it wasn’t women I should choose?

I downloaded Grindr once, but I was only on it, honestly, for twenty minutes, battered by offers of sex but no intimacy. I had never seen so many hard dicks in my life and guys telling me I was pretty and that they liked “to fuck pretty boys in the ass.” I stared at all these messages, amazed and afraid.

I deleted the app there and then, and I didn’t go back.

But how was I going to meet a man if I couldn’t spend half an hour on Grindr?

Sheesh, what am I even talking about?

I didn’t even know if I wanted to meet a man at all!

***

As I emerged from the subway, the familiar SoHo hustle and bustle of the city greeted me. Spring Street teemed with early morning activity, each passerby a fleeting figure in the city’s unending blur.

I paused at a Starbucks because I wanted to get one of their blueberry muffins. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted vaguely through the air as a long line of other New Yorkers and I waited for our morning caffeine shot. I ordered a tall latte with an extra shot of espresso, something to fill my stomach and get my blood going.

As I waited in line, the chatter of patrons on mobile phones, the back-and-forth of customers and baristas, and the clunk-and-whirr of the coffee machines filled the air. I was still googling things to do and see in London and trying to remember which ones appealed to me. Then someone from behind the counter shouted, “Paul!” and I woke from my thoughts.

I sipped my coffee and munched on my muffin as I walked the last few minutes to my office. Only in the last moments did I think to check my work messages on my phone.

In these kinds of businesses, they like you to be available twenty-four hours a day. I really wasn’t one of those guys who lives for work. I tended to look at my emails and team chat messages no earlier than five minutes before I entered the office.

Among the mundane messages from the HR person and a reminder about someone’s leaving drinks – a meeting reminder for thirty minutes’ time – was an email from Jack.

It jumped out at me from the screen, not because it was him. He emailed “All Staff” all the time, but I could see in the glimpse of the message that it started “Hey Paul…”

I tapped it to open it.

Hey Paul

I’d like to block out the whole day to go through the London project together. Can you make that happen? Don’t worry about canceling any other appointments – unless with outside clients – just say that Jack asked you to do it.

Regards

Jack

It was a very Jack message: friendly but to the point, reassuring yet assertive. I replied without hesitation, confirming my availability. The whole thing felt great.

Sure, Jack.

I’ll clear my schedule for the day. Nothing that can’t wait. Looking forward to diving into the project with you.

Then, I stared at the last sentence. Was it too much? I deleted it, and added:

All the best

Paul

I hit Send, and a sense of excitement surged through me. Just the day before, I had been thinking that my work was going nowhere. Now, all of a sudden, it seemed to be going somewhere.

An email came back at once.

Amazing – come to Harry’s office. He is out all day so we can get comfortable in there. Thirty minutes suit you?

Amazing, I replied and realized that what I was doing was copying him.

Dork.