Louisville Magazine is Louisville's city magazine, covering Louisville people, lifestyles, politics, sports, restaurants, entertainment and homes. Includes a monthly calendar of events.
Issue link: https://loumag.epubxp.com/i/453014
LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 2.15 43 Where do you look to meet people? "I love the idea of meeting someone through friends." "I've done Tinder, and it's ridiculous. The frst six months I went on a ton of dates, and then it was a bunch of freaks." "Tin Roof." "The guy who broke my heart, I met at a U of L-UK football game — not online — OK?" "Out to dinner." "Church, grocery, clubs." "Hopefully at work. I don't want to meet another person at a bar." "I don't look. I let them come to me." "Yoga. There are some cuties in there." "Thinking about Match.com. I feel like people who pay are more serious, unlike Tinder, which is free." Holder from the show. Real smooth-like, with a street- lean, somewhat troublemaker delivery. Tere is something compelling about the drugstore-gelled hair that mimics Holder's. When y'all get sushi at Dragon King's Daughter the next night, he's kind but looks at you too seriously. Avert your eyes to your "Italian Picnic" roll, to the ground. Remember some Tought Catalog article explaining how shoes tip of personality. You know you sound shallow, but he's wearing raggedy old tennis shoes on a date. Ugh! Killin' me, Smalls! E Tere's a loud thunk at the door. You open to Michael with his arms full. He's brought something old and newer (records), borrowed (a portable record player), and brown (Four Roses Single Barrel). Te bourbon matches the tan of his suede coat, which your fngers rub as you give him a hug. He's wearing good shoes, some Chucks. It's been a month or so since you've seen him. Y'all tried to meet up a few times in between, but you were out of town or in the hurricane of the holidays, and he stayed busy. Feel nervous now he's here. Feel yourself not really knowing what to do or say. Tell long-winded stories about trips to New Orleans, ask about his day. After y'all share some bourbon with Tisha, you and Mike hit the town. Once the world starts spinning, it doesn't stop. First, it's 21c to maze the stitches of Gina Phillips, glow in the black-light room, knock home runs with some painted Cubans. Ten, belly loud, it's Against the Grain for beers and pulled-pork nachos and chorizo hash. Movement is seamless and the conversation is seamless until you pause, because, holy shit, is that...? It is. Gerry Raferty's "Right Down the Line." You've been obsessed with the song for a month, and here it is, on for the two of you. Wonder signs. Learn of his steepled past, the Bible ft for education, how he grew out of that book. Tell him about Johnny Butts, that great name; how you once pulled Johnny's rattail. He laughs at your mess of kettle chips on the foor. At the Old Hickory Inn, Schnitzelburg's down-home- strangers-greet-ya-open-armed bar, play pool and sing karaoke with strangers. Here is where you tousle his hair, firt the hem of his button up. Te oldies around the bar keep calling Michael your boyfriend. Neither of you protest. You're not sure what this is but know you two are really going places. Round the night out at a friend's house. Tere must be 10 people scattered throughout the living room, blankets on the foor, laughing at some bad horror attempt. Michael is so smooth, fts right in with everybody. Te ease pleases you. Te next day — after you wake side by side on the twin bed in your friend's laundry room — laugh and talk and tickle for an hour, walk alleys home in spit mist, watch a shockingly endearing Mike Tyson documentary with Tisha, your legs over his, talk face tattoos and art parties. Learn he's 27 and a woodworker. You cast your line. Before he leaves, he kisses you in the doorway. Tere's a bit of bite and it is reeling. E Tisha says yes. Tisha says yes. Tisha says yes. Tisha is like your sister and she never says yes, never approves, but now she won't stop saying yes, yes, yes. E Feel like a little girl when you text your best friend in Philly about Mike. Say you're not sure, but for once you feel excited. Say you won't let yourself get overexcited, just in case. When you ask, she says not to contact him frst, to wait it out. Say you hate this game. Tis is something you haven't missed. Te waiting. You hate waiting. She says, "It's all about the mystery, baby!" You say, "Fuck mystery. Mystery is a mystery to mystery." E At the magazine, after showing Dylon, your ofce roomie, a pic of your man (and, oh God, did you just call him your man?), scream, "I FEEL SO INSANE! WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?" E Te week goes on, up in the air. Michael works third shift at a hotel across the river. His day schedule's all wonky. You never know when he sleeps, when to holler. If you should holler. How loudly you should holler. If you should go back to the holler from whence you came. Te sparse talk and the not-knowing make you confused, self-conscious. Haven't you already grown out of this bullshit? Didn't you leave those nets behind? Wonder how Michael feels. Feel crazy typing this. Wonder if everyone else is as gaga as you. E It must be the email format that keeps carrot-top Steve real formal. He seems so dead when he seemed so alive at speed dating. Wonder if this is an automated messaging system. He's more spontaneous when y'all switch numbers, start to text. Says he's daydreaming, sends a picture of a breakdancing dog. Decide to go to the Crescent Hill Craft House for a little grub grub. Steve's already halfway through an Apocalypse at the bar when you arrive. High fve, get a beer, get a table. You know the host from around; he's your age, real dapper. Wonder if he has any assumptions about you here with this baldy. Does he smell a date? Know you're on assignment? Tink you're grabbing dinner with dad? Waitress keeps coming over to take orders, but you've been talking, and you honestly don't know. You're talking about western Kentucky. He was a Hilltopper, and when you were a kid you ran around Owensboro in Grandma Iva's arms. Waitress is back again, and you order the poutine. Once the poutine hits the table, the game is over. Try to control yourself, but keep shoveling forkfuls as he talks Widespread Panic. Damn, this gravy is good. At some point, you have to ask. He says he's 39. You knew he was older — come on, the bald spot — but not that old. He says he has a young heart and you believe it but feel unsure about the age canyon. Imagine you at age 39, 49, 59. Remember when you were a kid, your mama was persistent: "Arie, you're not getting married till you're 50." Te babysitter, 20-something with a divorce at her back, reinforced the decision. Everyone against you! Oh, how you kicked and moaned and ferociously snapped the scissors at Barbie's head, remembering all those Disney princesses, especially the mermaid growing legs for love. But once you realized it would have been better if the man had grown fns — or if man and lady could've somehowmet in the middle, half land, half sea — you were fne with 50. Still are, unless you always swim free. Continued on page 87