Flyboy has called a couple of times. And I have an emotional quandary going on here. On one hand I like that he is a non-traditional desi man, it leads me to believe that I won’t spend my life with an ego-maniacal desi dude whose mother raised him to think himself a demi-god. (And believe me I know all desi men are not like this - my brother and Rohit and a bunch of guys from college I know are totally normal, decent dudes).
Flyboy seems to like to chat on the phone. A lot. Maybe in addition to getting shyer I am getting anti-social as I age.
And something about Flyboy has triggered uneasiness in my gut. And I never ignore my gut, except when it comes to desi men. So I resort to sending him an email, which begins an interchange of pithy little notes back and forth from our blackberries. Between emails I sift through my short stories and all the versions of the back cover I have written over the past few years. I am getting ready for my meeting with the Alumni who has agreed to meet me tomorrow.
He pings me again and this time he asks when I might be free to meet for lunch. Oh boy, I think. I should at least meet him. So I flip through my daily planner and suggest a Saturday three weeks from today. I have a happy hour at the rooftop bar at the Metropolitan Museum of Art that day, so that means I have a clean alibi to leave, if I need the escape.
He writes back and says the date sounds great and I can select a spot the closer we get to game day. He is lucky that “game day” is one of the few sports analyses I understand.