The next day I cannot remember the name of the sushi restaurant that I want to meet Flyboy at. And he strikes me as someone who needs an exact address and cross-street. Not that I am blame him. I am as literal as they come.
I get up from the desk and pluck the Zagat restaurant guide off the shelf, and thumb, thumb, thumb through the guide – cannot find the restaurant. Hhhmm. I set the guide aside, enlist Google and a host of eateries populate. I scroll through the options and realize that the restaurant is in the Morningside neighborhood, not Happy Valley. Oops. Oh well I have the information and can text the meet details to Flyboy.
Text to Flyboy: Tomo Sushi 2850 B’Way, xs 110 and 111th Street, east side of the street.
Text from Flyboy: B’Way?
Me: cross-street. (I have an infamously bad habit of using abbreviations and making up my own spellings that a friend of mine from volunteering teases me for writing words like “thots” and "f/u" = follow-up, not f***-you – I won’t make that mistake again!)
I go through my day and 12 hours later I am doing a repeat performance of last night. Desi Girl, Will, Grace, Karen, Jack, Diet Coke, and the couch. My phone beeps and I see a text message from Flyboy.
Flyboy: Well this should be interesting.
Flyboy: Me and sushi.
Me: Are you trying to tell me you don’t like sushi?
Flyboy: I don’t.
Okay – this is fine – however when I suggested sushi two nights ago and then sent details 12 hours ago, why didn’t he pipe up then with his dislike? Why did he wait for 11 pm the night before our date? LORDY!
Me (slightly annoyed): Well – will you eat Turkish food? (It is times like this I wish tone would come across in text).
Me: Fine. Wait while I find a venue.
I get off the couch and dig through my wallet. I just recently had dinner at a yummy place also on Broadway and have the address details in my purse.
Me: Turkuaz, 2637 Broadway, west side, cross-street 100th.
Flyboy: 2:30 pm tomorrow – right?
Me: Yes. Good night.