My boyfriend and I met at a party hosted by a friend of a friend of mine and a friend of a friend of his. This is an anthropological event, an epochal miracle.
He seemed like the kind of guy who would be on my Hinge Standouts (chiseled scruffy jaw, lean, “Greatest strength: Making reservations”), so I approached him.
It was difficult to figure him out—was he in a relationship? Gay? Moderate? A smoker? Didn’t want kids? Looking for something short-term? Without being able to consult a profile, I didn’t even know how tall he was. After the party, he asked me to get a drink.
When we met the following week at a wine bar in Williamsburg, I certainly walked in feeling above everyone else. The place was swarming with online first daters who approached each other hesitantly, inspecting angles to see if their faces matched their profile, and giving awkward hugs. We didn’t need that. We met at a party.
I knew right away that something was off, but with a magical, real-life meet cute, I was willing to put nearly anything aside.


