When you sign up on a dating site, you create a profile. There are blanks to fill in with your age, height, body type, marital status, education, sex of the person you’re seeking, geographic location, etc. There is also a question about religion. Supposedly, all these parameters will filter out those that aren’t the right fit. That does not happen, but you can still give it the old college try. 

In a previous blog post, I mentioned that cultural differences might have kept me from finding that one special person. Growing up, I spent summers at Jewish summer camps or a Jewish country club. My family vacationed in Miami Beach, FL, every February school vacation at hotels whose guest list was primarily Jewish. So, wouldn’t it make sense to find a Jewish man? Perhaps that would be the answer to eliminating all my dating failures. So, I started hunting for Jewish men. Honestly, not many interested me until I saw a blurry photo of Frank.

 From what I could see in this not-too-wonderful image was a man with straight, brown hair, long enough to reach his shirt collar, combed back behind his ears. He had no facial hair. (I prefer a clean-shaven face.) The downside was that he lived in Boston. I try to date men who are within a 20-mile radius, but that hasn’t been working. I’ve eliminated so many men who live beyond that distance. I haven’t met anyone in months. Has it occurred to me that I may be living in the wrong area? Of course, it has. Am I a little bit late in this realization? Yup. Would I move? Nope.

 I contacted Frank because I knew I’d be in Boston in March. I was buying a Biewer Terrier (pronounced beaver but I would never tell anyone I bought one of those) from a breeder in Colorado. She agreed to fly the little black-and-white fur ball to Boston, where I was to pick him up early Saturday morning. Arriving in Boston a day before the pup’s arrival would ensure my timely arrival at Logan Airport to meet the dog, and allow me to meet Frank on Friday evening. Frank was thrilled that I was coming to Boston and told me he wanted to take me out to dinner at Abe & Louie’s, an upscale restaurant near Copley Square.

 Although unconventional for me to get into a stranger’s car on the first date, I let Frank pick me up. He parked his white Jeep in the circular driveway in front of my hotel. I stayed hidden in an alcove beside the revolving door before going out to greet him so I could  text Elizabeth a photo of Frank’s car, including its Massachusetts license plate number. I recognized him immediately, although he looked much older than the fuzzy photo on Zotsky. He was portly but handsome. I noticed a slight limp as he walked toward the door, but considering we are both senior citizens, I figured that came with the territory. He wore stylish Italian loafers and a crisp, pinstripe collared shirt. I liked the whole look.

When we arrived at Abe & Louie’s, the valet took Frank’s car. He pulled out a wad of bills and handed the fellow a generous tip.  We entered the restaurant through throngs of people that were either drinking at the bar (standing-room only) or waiting for a table. The place was packed. 

We didn’t have to wait long to be seated. We followed the hostess to our table, carefully maneuvering our way around already-seated diners. The chatter was deafening, and it was hard to hear each other. We talked about our lives, work, divorces, and enjoyed a pleasant evening. Frank was an interior designer, and he took an interest in an addition I was planning for my home. Strangely, he knew a lot about the type of home I own, although I’d never discussed it with him. He was able to suggest multiple building options, and he sketched some ideas on a napkin.  

We ordered our dinners, and the food arrived promptly. The turnover at Abe & Louie’s was incredibly fast. Not a place for intimate dining, but a patron wouldn’t leave hungry. I watched as Frank scrutinized every tray that passed by our table on the shoulder of a server. He obviously loved food, and he had the belly to prove it. But I liked him. He was a colorful character. If I didn’t know he was Jewish, I would swear he was related to Whitey Bolger. He talked like a Boston thug. I thoroughly enjoyed everything.

 At one of my writing-group meetings, where I present my blog posts before publishing them, my friend and the group’s facilitator, Hank, asked me if any of my dates ever worked out, as I’d written about so many disasters. I replied with a “yes.”  I believed that Frank could be the one. 

© Miriam Greenberg, and the blog Love In The Time Of Corona, beginning April 2022 to the Present. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Miriam Greenberg and Love In The Time Of Corona with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.