The paper is blank save for the name: Jake. The four letters rest on cream stationery lacking any additional information but sporting a firm black border. It’s weighty, this note. Significant in my hands.
I find it slipped under my door on my way to dinner. The dinner that, if this paper is to be believed, will introduce me to the man I will spend the rest of my life with. This has never happened before. But then again, it’s not the kind of thing that happens twice.
The restaurant is in West Hollywood, not far from where I live. I like to choose the place. If I get the paper late, like, say, at dessert—and it says two hours—I can wrap things up quickly.
Tonight we are at the tail end of summer in Los Angeles, and warmer nights are descending into the low seventies. The wind has even started to pick up—reminding us of all that fall can bring. I ruck my hair behind my ear and toss it over my shoulder as I climb the steps and open the door.
“Hey, Daphne!” The hostess at Gracias Madre, a casual vegan Mexican place on Melrose, recognizes me immediately. Her name is Marissa, and I know she used to bartend at The Pikey on Sunset, before they closed. “You’re the first one here, do you want to sit?”
The space is beautiful—a bar area spills out onto a large and lively patio to the side. There are potted trees throughout the restaurant, and warm, yellow light falls from the overhead glass fixtures and onto the terra-cotta-tiled floors like honeycomb.
I’m nervous, and I’m never nervous. I’m wearing a black halter top and a pair of 501s. Neon kitten heels. I would have probably chosen a different ensemble, maybe even something a little more romantic, seeing as how this is going to be my last first date ever, but I was already dressed, and now here we are.
“Sure,” I tell her. “I love your jumpsuit.” I point to the denim romper she’s wearing. I could never pull it off, but she definitely is.
“It’s from the vintage on Melrose—I took your tip.”
“Throwback,” I say, as we walk. “Good shit.”
There are several places in West Hollywood that sell secondhand, but Wasteland is the best. I don’t have a ton of hobbies, but thrifting is one of the few:
She leaves me at the table—I’m in the back of the restaurant, which gives me a full view of the entire space—and I take out my phone.
There’s a text from my mom, Debra. Honey, did you look at the pictures I sent? She’s a burgeoning photographer, primarily focusing on—I kid you not—mezuzahs.
The answer is no.