Once upon a time (read: seven months ago) I had a Jordan Catalano level crush on a man we’ll call Matteo. Painfully cool, self-absorbed beyond comprehension, and attractive, but not in a classic way. Elusive enough to keep you on your toes, but adoring enough to keep you coming back for more. Even after he’s ghosted you for two weeks.
It started a few years back. Matteo owned a bar in the East Village, where I lived, and I’d see him around the neighborhood fairly often. He was kind of a big deal in the community; a staple of sorts. Everyone knew him and everyone loved him. Whenever I passed him in the street or popped into his bar, I’d always catch him staring at me. One day he almost crashed his skateboard into a parked car because he was turning his head to check me out while I was walking down Avenue B. I’d mention him to my friends — he was the “hot bearded guy” that I just needed to somehow figure out a way to talk to. We had this thing, though we had never formally met.
Then in 2021, I hired the internet to find me a boyfriend. I, like millions of other independent, horny, lazy women who would rather eat a sandwich made of glass than stand around in a bar to find a man, entrusted the world wide web to do the leg work for me. I downloaded Hinge — “the dating app designed to be deleted” — and kicked off my adventures in online dating. More on that shit show later. Just when I thought Hinge was failing miserably at it’s one job, it matched me with Matteo.
After a few days of messaging back and forth, I found myself practically floating down Avenue B, on my way to my first date with my crush. I was in my perfect first date outfit; black slip dress, black moto jacket, and Converse. I walked into the bar (I chose it — it was one of my favorites; great candle lighting, decent wine, a good playlist) to find Matteo perched on a bar stool chatting up a stranger. Of course he was talking to someone — he was so cool! Everyone loved him.
“Bella!” he said as soon as he spotted me, his arms outstretched. He pulled me in for a close hug and that’s the precise moment I sold my soul to the devil. Ugh. He smelled so good. He looked so good. I hopped on the bar stool next to him and started nervously rambling about my walk over and a series of other unimportant things.
“A rat ran right past my feet on my way here! I’m still shaking! Isn’t it beautiful out? We got so lucky with this weather today! How was your day?” My god Cara SHUT THE FUCK UP.
He reached for my hands and squeezed them. A few seconds later I realized he wasn’t letting go. I felt my stomach flutter and my face get flush and I swear I could have melted right into that seat. Actually that is the precise moment I sold my soul to the devil.
We made some small talk which is all a blur and then he kissed me. This wasn’t just any kiss either. It was the kind of kiss where the world slows down, you forget anyone else is around, and your mind just kind of floats away toward the ceiling like a balloon. Where was I? Who was I? Did it matter? Matteo and I were making out and nothing else mattered in the world.
We hung out there for maybe an hour or so, kissing and talking and then he suggested we go have another drink at his bar. Swoon. That’s all it took for me to begin immediately imagining our life together. The East Village’s favorite power couple: the edgy bar owner and the cute writer chick. I imagined me moving into his place, which was conveniently located right above his bar. I’d come downstairs around happy hour with my laptop and sit at the bar while he served drinks to the NYU students who poured in for cheap beers. He’d wink at me from across the bar while he was working as I worked on my new book.
Matteo paid the bill as I gathered my purse. I pointed to his phone to signal that he was about to forget it on the bar. He grabbed the phone in one hand and my hand with his other and we walked out the door. We giggled and kissed the entire four block walk until we made it to his bar. “Head to the back and get whatever you want. Don’t you dare pay for anything. Tell them you’re with me. I’ll be right back.”
Then he disappeared for what felt like six hours. In reality it was about twenty minutes. Still, twenty minutes. I was getting antsy waiting for him so I headed to the front of the bar and stepped outside the doorway. I heard a loud thud and turned my head to see him closing the door to his apartment building. “I’m back! So sorry. So so sorry!”
I noticed he was in an entirely different outfit. White jeans, a button down shirt, and a fedora. He had been in cargo shorts and a t-shirt at the first bar we met up at. “Why did you change?” I asked him, puzzled.
“You just looked so fancy! I felt under-dressed.”
I smiled and he pulled me in for another kiss and my lips went numb almost on contact. “Why are my lips numb!?” I said, cackling, because after four glasses of wine I thought this was the funniest thing on earth.
“Oh I did a bump, babe. Want some?”
“No thanks!” I said, as if he was asking me if I wanted a sip of his seltzer and not cocaine.
He suggested we go back to my place to “chill out and listen to some music” and that was music to my ears. It was already approaching 11 PM by this point and I wanted more of him and not in a crowded bar. We got to my apartment and I put on a playlist: The Strokes, New Order, The Smiths, and some other indie rock. I kicked off my Converse, walked into my kitchen, swung my refrigerator door open and whipped out a bottle of Moet. “Some CHAMPAGNE with your COCAINE?” I giggled, waving an empty wine glass in the air. I don’t know why I found the fact that this guy was ripping lines of coke funny, but I was half in the bag myself. I popped the bottle and we made our way to my couch.
I’ll spare you all the details of the rest of the evening, but here are some highlights: we made out some more, he admitted to having a crush on me for years after seeing me around the neighborhood, then he told me he loved me, then he cried.
This is the part of the story I have a hard time telling anyone about. Because it’s fucking weird. But I’m writing the truth. So here we are. I knew it was bizarre to have a stranger tell me he loved me on a first date. But something about it felt right in the moment. I felt like we had an unspoken and deep understanding of each other. Some silent language, some knowing. Psychics will call it a past life connection. Therapists will call it trauma bonding. Were we two fucked up kids who never fully healed their stuff, desperate for connection? Or were we two lost souls who had been madly in love in another lifetime and found each other again on this timeline?
Who knows. But it was the most fun I’d had in a long time.
To be continued.
💀💀💀 literally deceased over the disclaimer at the top 😂🖤
Omg do you want some wine with your COCAINE I'm dyingggg