Megan M.
Yelp
Perfect! Here's the updated version:
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I met Oliver--third-generation "I summer in Nantucket, but spiritually I live in the NYAC steam room" money--after Reilly dragged me to a club party she promised would be full of normal men who didn't love their grandmothers too much and lived below 14th Street. She lied on both counts. Oliver materialized in a navy blazer that looked like it had been passed down since the Mayflower docking ceremony, which, according to him, his family financed "in spirit and liquidity." Completely deranged thing to say in a cocktail lounge at midnight, yes... but also: multigenerational compound interest does hit like a high-yield pheromone if you squint. And he asked me to dinner on West Houston, which I took as a sign that at least one of his ancestors believed in dating outside the gene pool.
So I wore an old Reformation dress Reilly called "pilgrim chic," which felt correct since I'd just finished Girard's mimetic theory and figured I'd test whether a WASP man obsessed with his grandmother could be seduced by a woman dressed like his great-great-grandmother if she'd had access to genetic diversity and a Reformer Pilates membership. But then he said we were going to Moroccan food for a first date. Moroccan. As in eat with your hands like a middle school basement party where someone's mom buys Sabra hummus and hopes the Lord intervenes. I'd just moisturized with a cream so expensive it comes with quarterly performance reports--I'm not dragging my knuckles through a communal tagine, Oliver. Give me a fork or give me death.
To his credit, the place was vibey in that "everything is amber and no one has paid taxes since 2009" way, and he did that thing where he moved the candle because he said it was "reflecting weird on my cheekbones" (hit me like a personal IPO roadshow). The conversation had strong fundamentals but concerning exposure to heritage risk--he talked about his family's townhouse "in the excellence zone" (65th to 80th, I guess) and pronounced "scone" like it rhymes with "cone," which should be disqualifying but on him felt like an inherited speech impediment from too much intergenerational confidence. I pretended not to mentally model what marrying someone whose bloodline invented the concept of a by-appointment-only parlor would look like. Barthes would have a field day with that blazer--it's not clothing, it's a semiotic system signaling "my family has been avoiding the subway since 1904."
When the food came, I had a full internal crisis. The tagine arrived steaming, communal, and clearly designed for hand-to-mouth contact. I could feel my manicurist's disappointment radiating from 20 blocks away. My cuticles have a fiduciary duty to remain pristine. So I daintily fork-ed every single dish like I was performing microsurgery on a Hermès bag, and Oliver said he liked a woman with "discipline," which is what men say right before they tell you their portfolio is 60% muni bonds. I smiled and stabbed a piece of lamb like I was commemorating a historical land acquisition.
By dessert, he was fully leaning in, telling me he doesn't usually date "downtown girls," which I took as both a slur and a compliment. And honestly? Oliver is a walking colonial reenactment, but he's also tall, handsome in that "I may have a trust clause that forbids public servitude" kind of way, and seems vaguely turned on by my refusal to touch food with my bare hands. So yes--Ayah gets a 4.2/5 for candlelit delusion and immaculate cumin, Oliver gets a 3.6/5 with 4.8 option value if he stops saying things like "my grandmother taught me everything about women."
If he behaves, I'll let him take me somewhere next time where my moisturizer isn't at risk--maybe Sag Harbor, south of the highway, ancestral-adjacent. If not, I'll return him to the NYAC lost-and-found where Reilly found him.