Right before I started writing this column, I broke up with Patrick. Doesn’t seem like a big deal (and in the scheme of things, it’s not; it wasn’t) but Patrick was the first guy in almost three years that I really (really) liked.
Or at least, I thought I did. In fact, I thought he could be a significant someone in my life, especially after our nearly 24-hour first date seemed to be a sign that there were really good things to come with this tall, handsome, stock-trading Greek. But like most plot lines in my dating life, I had to wear my rose-colored glasses long enough to get blinded, and finally see the truth.
I met him on Hinge and for our first meet-up, he suggested a fancy-shmancy cocktail bar downtown. After we made our way through three cocktails in less than two hours (sorry not sorry), he casually said, “I actually made dinner reservations at the place upstairs, if you’re interested.”
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