you look like modigliani painted you; & other vignettes from three recent dates

One night this past week

“You look like Modigliani painted you,” my date said.

My date was a 71-year-old doctor. He had taken me to a cutting-edge new restaurant in Chelsea. I’m not a foodie, so I was trying not to laugh at the odd combinations of food (you know, braised scallions with ginger, duck feet with raspberry tincture, that sort of thing) and the long, serious enthusiastic descriptions of the food given by the staff, who interrupted us every 2.5 minutes to ask if we wanted more of this or that, or if this tasted all right, or to fill our water classes or to brush the tablecloth clean.

* * *

“You look like Modigliani painted you,” my date said, but he didn’t say it to me.

He said it to the twenty-something waitress who was describing in excruciating detail the sardines in chocolate vinegar or whatever it was.

* * *

So I looked at her with some interest.

(photo credit: whatever museum owns this)

She had beautiful dark eyes and long black hair, a face more round than long, and a very slender figure. Later, when my date inquired (he was a very inquiring man), she said that she was Chinese and something else, which I forget. She was a lovely and pleasant young woman.

* * *

She had never heard of Modigliani and — after my date had told her three times that she looked like (sic) Modigliani painted her; and let’s call him Mo-man for short — asked Mo-man to spell the name, so she could write it down and look it up.

Mo-man could not spell Modigliani.

The pedant in me overcame the pissed-off date, and I spelled it for her.

* * *

Well, at least one of us was educated enough to spell.

* * *

The next time she came (2.5 minutes later; we were never without the attention of staff for more than 2.5 minutes), Mo-man looked at her admiringly again, turned to me for support and asked, “Doesn’t she look like Modigliani painted her?”

“Yes! Definitely!” I concurred.

* * *

I knew I would never see him again unless we bumped into each other on the street, which seemed unlikely, because he lives in a much more expensive neighborhood than I do. —- In fact, he made allusions to the beautiful view of the Hudson from his apartment and the gym in his building.

* * *

Mo-man didn’t so much dominate as control the conversation. During our entire date, he quizzed me without let-up about my work. When I told him I couldn’t eat and talk at the same time, and he needed to talk so I could appreciate — and finish — the wild dandelions with vanilla and garlic or whatever they were, then he talked a bit. But the rest of the time it was an inquisition.

* * *

Hey enough about Mo-man. I have other dates to talk about.

Another night this past week

“Thank you, Plan C — you idiot!”

That’s what Funny Guy said during our kissing break.

* * *

You see why his name is Funny Guy.

* * *

Funny Guy hates pretentiousness and would never have taken me to a restaurant where they serve salmon with pomegranate seeds and butterscotch sauce.

* * *

Funny Guy and I were making each other laugh in our very first introductory emails. We laughed all the way through our first date, so much that my cheeks hurt when I got home.

We were more serious during our second date: Funny Guy began telling me some of the traumas of his childhood.

* * *

During our 12-hour third date (the first two dates were 5.5 hours each), Funny Guy and I walked about one-third the length of Manhattan, stopping here and there to note turtles, a tribe of kids on bikes, witty vintage posters for sale, the 42nd Street Library, now re-named Steve or something like that, and much more. As we walked, I told a few traumatic childhood (and adult) stories; FG told some more; and then I said, “Enough of this. We need to tell some dirty jokes.”

So we did. Mine were a bit better, but his were good.

And then we told more jokes, dirty and otherwise, as we waited in line to see a free preview of a new movie FG had passes to. Then we returned to my apartment, where the words that began this section of the post were uttered.

* * *

I have a fourth date with Funny Guy on Saturday. I can’t tell yet where this is going.

And yet another night this past week

Yeah, the men are coming out of the woodwork with all this good weather.

Tall Fellow, a very pleasant suburban businessman, met me at a coffee house, where we talked for about an hour and a half.

To my surprise, he invited me out for dinner once we finished our coffee, so we went to a lovely, small, unpretentious restaurant, where the staff left us in peace to talk about foreign countries, our children, and our dating adventures.

In the middle of dinner, Tall Fellow asked me what kind of music I liked. I said it was easier to say what kinds I didn’t like: crooning, “easy listening,” and violin solos (remember Performer??). (And anyway, I’ve never liked violin solos.) Or anything slow and dreary, I added.

At which Tall Fellow invited me to a jazz concert in the next two weeks. He didn’t know exactly when it was going to be, but he said he’d get in touch with me.

It sounded fun, so I accepted.

* * *

Now, I haven’t heard from Tall Fellow since yesterday evening when we parted (with a kind of awkward hug), so I wonder if this date is really going to happen. But then, TF is not much of an emailer. And he seems to be a gentlemanly sort, so he’ll probably follow through on it.

* * *

This is the first day since I met him eleven days ago that I haven’t received an email from Funny Guy. He has been fairly active online: perhaps he has another date??

* * *

Well, it’s not as if I’m in any position to complain. I’ve had a few myself.

* * *

Go ahead, let him find someone more charming than I.

* * *

Maybe he will.

Or won’t.

* * *

But it’s certainly clear to me, rereading this post, that I don’t feel with either of the other two the perfect easiness I feel with Funny Guy.

* * *

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