“I’ll have a dirty Belvedere martini with three olives,” she purrs.
“Put that on my tab,” I tell Luke, not because I’m interested in her but because this is how New York works. When an attractive woman sits beside a good-looking single guy at a bar, it’s expected that he’ll buy her a drink.
Then again, she’s like every other woman in New York. She probably saw me sitting here at the bar alone as she was walking by on her way to meet girlfriends at a trendier spot. She probably texted those friends to let them know she was going to be late because she spotted a good-looking guy sitting by himself. I know how I present: I’m a handsome man in his forties, dressed well, sipping on a Manhattan in Manhattan. I already know this woman wants me to do a tired, boring, and clichéd flirting dance with her. Unfortunately, I really don’t want to do it.
I wonder if Luke remembers our little S.O.S. number from when he worked for me. It’s worth a try.
“Luke, how’s your Uncle Stanley?”
Luke doesn’t have an Uncle Stanley. It’s our code word.
He nods with a concerned expression on his face.
“He’s good. He’s just wondering when you’re going to bring that husband of yours over for dinner again. He adores hearing Brian play the piano.”
Good. Luke remembers the S.O.S. Immediately, the woman next to me jerks and shoots me a shocked look.
“Uh, thanks for the martini, but I forgot I’m supposed to be meeting friends,” the blonde slams back her drink and exits on cue. After she’s gone, Luke laughs a bit.
“Pete, she was smoking hot. What’s up, are you dating someone seriously?”
I roll my eyes.
“No, I’m not dating anyone. I’m just tired of the parade of New York girls that all look like they stepped out of their plastic surgeon’s office. You know their agenda: be a model, find a rich husband, get a dog you can carry in your purse, all the while gossiping with friends non-stop.”
Luke nods knowingly.
“I get it. Julie grew up in North Carolina, and she isn’t a typical New York girl. She’s as beautiful as any of them, but she’s real. She drinks beer, watches basketball, and would rather wear a pair of Converse than heels. And our dog does not fit in her purse.”
I nod.
“For these women, it’s all about who’s weekending in the Hamptons and what parties they’ll be attending. I feel like every time I stumble upon a group of city girls at the beaches up there, they’re talking about who has the best fake breasts, when their next Botox appointment is, and whose husband is cheating on whom. They would all rather stab each other in the back than lift each other up.”
My friend looks sympathetic.
“It sounds like you’re having a reverse mid-life crisis, buddy. Instead of looking for a piece of arm candy to boost your ego, you’re looking for a woman with substance.”
I snort.
“We both know my ego is just fine and arm candy is like any other sugary snack. It leaves you hungry for something more substantial in no time at all.”
Luke laughs.
“Maybe, but I still love a good sugar cookie. Have you been to that bakery around the corner, SugarTime? Their sugar cookies are phenomenal.”
I shake my head.
“No, I haven’t heard of it. Maybe I’ll check it out once this quarantine mess is over. Speaking of which, I’ll take my tab, bud. I’m going to head out of here and get some sleep. I anticipate lots of calls from managers with questions about the new safety protocols for Shake Place.”
I sign the credit card receipt and duck out the front door while Luke is lamenting March Madness being cancelled with a couple of guys at the other end of the bar. Luke has always been a friend and a good businessman. I don’t know if I would have had the courage to open so many Shake Place locations if I hadn’t had someone like him at my back. Because he deserves it, I leave him a $500 tip to ease some of the strain during the shutdown. He’ll protest if he sees it, so I give him a two-finger wave and slip out the front door while he’s still at the other side of the bar.
I consider what Luke said about having a reverse mid-life crisis. Is that what you call it when you decide that jumping from one shallow, pretty face to the next is unfulfilling? And like a response from the universe, my phone rings. It’s Stella, a gorgeous Instagram model with hair the color of wildfire. I hit ignore.
As stunningly beautiful as Stella is, I’m not interested in spending any more time with her because she’s just annoying. Whether we’re strolling through Central Park or having lunch in a café, Stella spends more time posting selfies than she does engaging in conversation. She needs to get just the right angle so that the brand of her running shoes is displayed for her sponsors. She arranges her strawberry-feta-chia seed salad for photoshoots, and posts “Delicious, but I’m stuffed!” under the photo. Of course, she’d doesn’t even eat it. It’s just for show.