Hey sorry for the rushed message. I just got home from the hospital and had no idea it was so late and had a ton of messages/voice mails . . . so so so sorry for screwing up our plans! Totally understand if you’re really pissed at me . . . I’ve been a mess. I was out last night and did too many drugs and got really drunk and apparently tried to get into someone’s car thinking it was mine a
nd the cops came and almost arrested me (I was handcuffed for a bit) and then sent me to the ER. I think they may have sedated me or something because I ended up unconscious for about 12 hours. Again, so sorry I was really looking forward to it and am pretty pissed at myself.
I texted him back: Glad you’re okay, followed by a smiley face.
And then I laughed. I’d been brilliantly played by Tinder. Tinder is the house, and the house always wins.
The Russian Explains It All
I was outside, taking a break from a black-tie dinner at the Cipriani on Forty-Second Street when I noticed a woman standing on the steps between the columns of the old bank. She was tall and lean with masses of hair, dressed like a woman warrior in a second-skin cocktail dress and thigh-high wrapped leather boots.
I was gaping at her, of course. She saw me staring and came over.
“Got a light?” she asked with a Russian accent.
“Sure,” I said.
We stood for a moment in silence, watching the 1 percent come and go in their town cars and SUVs.
“Tell me something,” I said. “Are you on Tinder?”
“Of course,” she laughed.
“But why? You’re beautiful. You don’t look like you need to go on Tinder.”
She nodded in agreement and then beckoned me closer.
“You want to know the secret to Tinder?”
“Yes?”
“When you go on it you get lots more Instagram followers.”
I stared at her. “Really? That’s it? It’s all about Instagram followers? But what about . . . all the women who are going on it to find relationships? And then they meet guys, but they don’t get a second date? Or else the guy likes her, but she doesn’t like him?”
The Russian turned. “That?” she asked. “You know the answer to that.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t.”
“It’s because women never change. It’s the same old story.” She paused to flick away her cigarette. “We women don’t know what we want!”
And with a laugh of triumph, she spun around and was gone.
For a moment, I just stood there. Was she right? Was it really as simple as that hoary old paternalistic cliché?
And then I realized she was wrong. Because women do know what they want. And mostly, it seems, what they want is simple. A modicum of respect. To be treated, as Hannah said, like a human being.
I held out my hand for an old-fashioned yellow taxi.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
I smiled.
Home.
chapter four
Get Ready Ladies: The Cubs Are Coming to Town