Finding a life partner using the internet is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. A recent New York Times article about online dating said the solution was to burn the haystack. It did make perfect sense. I have my set of dating parameters. I should stick to them and delete any men (the hay) who don’t fit. Eventually, I’ll find my guy (the needle).

When Milton from Hudson Valley, New York, contacted me through Zotsky, I told him I wasn’t interested. He lived too far away, and no date is worth a two-hour drive. But Milton wouldn’t take no for an answer. He continued to write, insisting we had much in common and I should give it a shot. Milton was Jewish, and that also made me hesitate to delete him. I don’t find many men who are. That isn’t mandatory for me, but it offers additional potential.

I drove over 200 miles today,” argued Milton in one of his messages. “I don’t mind driving. That’s what I do.”  I wasn’t sure about the comment that’s what I do, but I considered his offer.

After a week of back-and-forth messages, I finally agreed to meet Milton the following Saturday; however, I restated that I would never drive to Hudson Valley. Milton told me to select the restaurant, and I chose Max A Mia—a popular place in Avon, CT, ten minutes from my house. It serves the best eggplant lasagna.

When I arrived at the restaurant, I didn’t spot Milton immediately. The restaurant host at the front-door podium blocked my view of the bar. I approached and gave my name as I’d made the reservation. That’s when I spotted Milton. He leaned against a high-top table, casually sipping a white wine. He knew I was his date. He gave me the best tilt-of-the-head, all-knowing smirk, and sultry look.

That doesn’t work after 70, and between you and me, Milton was way past that. 

He did look sharp in his earth-tone, hounds-tooth check jacket, black tee shirt, and jeans. He had a cockiness about him. He approached me, and I smiled.

Milton took charge right away. 

“You can take us to our table now,” he abruptly said to the host, who was already holding two menus and was about to do that anyway. Milton’s attitude raised a red flag for me. I consider myself a kind, polite person. Milton had a demanding demeanor. He was impressed with who he was.

We sat in a booth opposite each other, and I regarded him closely. His sports jacket was well made. Its checked pattern matched perfectly where the sleeves met the body of the garment, the sign of a designer piece.

“This is a 1974 Armani,” he boasted. “I purchased every pattern he made that year. That’s when I was at the top of my game in Manhattan’s direct mail industry. I always dressed to impress.”

I had no words. I listened and learned.

I attempted to interject some relevant conversation about the direct-mail business, but Milton wasn’t interested. He only wanted to talk about himself. I asked him about his firm today.

“What business?” he replied. “It’s gone now. There was 9/11 and the internet, and BOOM!”  Milton raised his arms for emphasis.  Then, he leaned forward as far as he could toward me.

“Before that, however, I was the king.”

I nodded.  “So, what do you do now?” I asked. “You said you drive every day.” 

Milton proudly handed me his business card. It indicated he was a personal driver.    “I used to be an Uber driver,” explained Milton, “but I was fired. After five complaints, they fire you. I don’t know who complained or why, but it happened. The best thing I ever did was go out on my own. I make way more money this way.”

Our waiter was a young man. He came to our table, filled our water glasses, and asked if we wanted a beverage from the bar. Milt still had his white wine. I ordered a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. 

“I want you to know I’m a gentleman,” Milton told me. “I know you wrote in your profile that you were happy to split a dinner bill as you are more interested in making a friend. I will be a friend, but I am not allowing you to pay for dinner. I asked you to meet me. I’ll take care of the meal tab.”

The waiter returned with my wine and asked if we’d had a chance to look at the menu. He made some suggestions regarding appetizers.

“What is your name?” demanded Milton. He stared intently up at the young man.

“It’s Zach,” the waiter pleasantly replied.

“Well, Zach, this is our first date, and we are just getting to know each other. When we are ready to order, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, leave us alone.”

I quickly looked up at Zach’s face, expecting an insulted expression. He didn’t flinch. I was amazed. Milton turned to me and carried on with his self-centeredness. 

I wanted to leave, or smack Milton in the head. What a jerk. I had to think of a way to cut this dinner short. I’d never been with anyone so rude in my life.