Dating, Again.

It is a warm Sunday afternoon on a West Hollywood patio, but Amanda and I have found a quiet, shady table away from the din and spectacle on Melrose Avenue. She’s having an iced dirty chai, I’ve got an Americano.

It’s a first date.

(Yes, I am dating again. We are who we are, I suppose, and after two years, the comforts of a strict chastity have become less alluring. Long-time readers will be charitable enough not to assume that this means a sixth marriage is in the offing.)

Amanda studied archaeology in college, but now works in event planning. We talk about the challenges of a rapidly changing economy, we lament the rents, and discover we are both fond of May Gray and the smell of rotting jacaranda blossoms. (Things about which every Angeleno is expected to have an opinion.) First dates are interviews of course, but they are best approached with curiosity and pleasure. The worst thing that can happen is that one learns something new. It is permitted to not find someone attractive, as chemistry cannot be manufactured. To find someone boring, though is to have failed in a basic task of being a curious interlocutor.

We are not bored. Amanda is platinum blonde, her sleeveless dress a brilliant yellow. Her earrings are silver hoops with tiny silver fish skeletons dangling inside each, and I learn she’s worn them since a graduate school dig on a South Carolina barrier island. I tell her I was once a college professor, but — I test out a new explanation that is not altogether untrue — tell her I grew tired of the sound of my own voice.

We talk about the dating apps we use, laugh ruefully at how dispiriting the process can be. Raising the stakes slightly, we discover that we’re each divorced — and that we each met our most-recent former spouse on Bumble. What are the chances, we say. Pretty high, actually, we agree.

“I’m always having to look up new acronyms,” I confess. “LTR, FWB, NMNK? I’m just constantly Googling.” To be honest, I probably know more of these abbreviations than I am suggesting, but self-deprecation is woven into the fabric of my flirting. I expect perhaps Amanda will tease me about being old, or perhaps she will concede something similar.

Instead, she shakes her head with enough vigor that the fish inside the hoop earrings spin. Huge hazel eyes fill with reproach.

"You were a college professor, you say? And you forgot the difference between an initialism and an acronym?"

I clap my hands together in genuine delight. “You’re absolutely right,” I concede. “I should know better.” I grin. I was bred to not only take correction well, but to express gratitude for a woman’s reproach. There should not be even the tiniest visible hint of pique or fluster.

I am rewarded with a full smile. "I always like to see how men respond to being challenged," Amanda declares.

“And I like to remind whomever I meet that a gentleman is never defensive when his mistakes are corrected."

The exchange is good enough to warrant fresh coffees.

I welcome the occasional tip. I am very grateful to anyone willing to Buy Me a Coffee, perhaps so I can buy other delightful dates more iced dirty chais.