The Mathematician

“Happiness often sneaks in through a door you didn’t know you left open.”

- John Barrymore

Fall had finally arrived in New York, and I was balancing work with my first full semester of school. After things with Louis ended, I grew cautious about dating – I’d gone from being fully open when meeting people to being a little more hesitant. Sometimes, I left the dating apps for days, losing my appetite for exploring the city with so much on my plate. But as is often the case, things lined up perfectly, and in the case of The Mathematician, our meeting was the result of such a perfect alignment.

It was his pictures that drew me in - he had a sincere smile and looked dashingly handsome in his profile photos. I sensed a mild sense of adventure in him, especially in one photo showing him sitting on a foreign sand dune at night, holding a bottle of wine and laughing. Despite my cautiousness, something about him put me at ease, and so I found myself sitting across from him in a bar in the West Village, a place he was sure I’d like - covered with old books and decorated in Victorian style. He was right - I loved it.

Our conversation flowed remarkably easily for two people who had never met. We talked about our favorite things - adventure, books, and nerdy things I won’t bore you with. He was well-educated in mathematics, a subject I have zero understanding of, and he was on a solid career track in finance because of his near-genius understanding of numbers. I wish.

We decided to bar-hop in the village and ended up at a small pub covered in old-fashioned pictures. The only open spot was in front of a large black and white photo of people ice skating on the rink in Central Park before the trees were the towering monoliths they are now, and we stayed there for the next two hours making up names and stories for each of the skaters we saw. I know it sounds strange, but to this day, it was one of the most fun dates I’ve been on. We had the same weird sense of humor and were good at making each other laugh. I liked him and this date and was looking forward to seeing where things went.

I woke up the next morning with a spinning head from the overzealous way we took on bar-hopping and cocktails. Apparently, our conversation wasn’t the only thing that flowed easily. I will warn each of you who hasn’t experienced our city’s large number of appealing craft cocktail spots yet - there is a certain danger that comes from wanting to try diverse drinks. I sighed, closed my eyes, and prepared myself for a long, slow day full of Advil and sleep.

That’s when I realized I wasn’t in my bedroom. In fact, I wasn’t in my house, building hallway, or any other place close to my home. I was, to my horror, at The Mathematician’s.

A wave of panicked (or hungover?) nausea hit me.

For those who don’t know me well, my appearance is something I like to put work and effort into. Having someone I just met see me unkempt, disastrous, and hungover is not something I am ever OK with. What can I say? After many heartbreaks, vulnerability is not my strong suit. On top of that, I’m a nester at heart and hate sleeping at anyone else’s house - even friends. This was my nightmare outcome for what was a fun first date.

I sat up slowly, careful not to wake up the man sleeping nearby, and tiptoed to the foyer, grabbing my bag and shoes as I went.

He lived alone in a lovely apartment in TriBeCa, with adult furnishings, a solid record collection like my parents used to have, and great art prints he had yet to hang up - a rarity in men in their thirties in the city, and I cursed my double bad luck. I took one last glance at his sleeping form on the couch and slipped out into the cold morning air, promising I’d never see the man I’d made such a fool of myself in front of. I also promised myself I'd get less drunk on any future date and I’d never stay at someone’s house after meeting them for the first time.

I got a text later that day: I had a blast last night. We should do it again.

Sure, I lied. When I'm not so busy with paper writing. The truth was, I just felt so embarrassed at my passing out at his house that I couldn't face him again.

Time passed, and he messaged here and there until it was apparent my schedule didn’t allow for much free time. Things moved forward without us meeting again. I was bummed that such a great date ended on such a ridiculous note but couldn’t face him again, so that was that: the end of seeing The Mathematician again.

A few months later, The Mathematician resurfaced out of the blue, asking me to dinner. He’d yet again caught me in a rare quiet period where I didn’t have a ton of homework, and enough time had passed that the sting of my embarrassment was less. I was touched by his persistence, so I finally acquiesced to a second date. I was a little nervous - what would it be like to see him after all this time? Would it be weird? Was he the way I remembered him?

I met him at one of his favorite restaurants downtown, pleased to find him as charming as I remembered. Again, after we sat down, the conversation flowed easily, although we both agreed to be “adults” this time and only share a bottle of wine, not taste the whole menu. This is a strange thing to admit, but our conversations were just so normal and human - no lame discussions about the weather, favorite restaurants, or work. Instead, it was more making stories for strangers and laughing at our own sad jokes.

He invited me back to his apartment and served old fashioneds while I sprawled out comfortably on his area rug in front of the record player. When I was little, my parents would dim the lights in our basement and play records around the fireplace - my dad with a glass of wine and my mom making sure I was cuddled somewhere nearby. To this day, that initial tracking noise records make when the needle hits the vinyl still instills a calm in me that few things can. I've always been in love with the idea of a record, and as I grew older, the quality of sound became something I had more and more of an ear for.

We sat there for a long time, exchanging our opinions on songs and taking turns playing our favorites for each other. It occurred to me then how relaxed I was around this near-stranger, talking to him about ridiculous things and exchanging notes on music. I normally have a really hard time being myself without concern around men, and yet it happened so naturally here. A rarity I have only ever experienced one other time, in Vegas, with a now good friend.

I said goodbye that night, aware that I was healing from the loss of love I felt and for the first time in a long time felt encouraged that there might be more out there for me in the world with someone who was a better match than my ex.

I don’t know what our story arc is, as his involvement in my life weaves in and out of focus based on our commitments - if our lives permit, we see each other. If not, that’s OK too. What I do know is he is one of the most accepting, supportive, nonjudgmental, and sane men I’ve met and it encourages me that someone as lovely as him wants to be a part of my life. He’s always there for me without me ever asking - something I can’t say the same for in the majority of the men I’ve actually seriously dated. I don’t know what role he will play in my life, but sometimes, you don’t need the solution for an equation in your life. It’s just about living out the answer.