I walked into a posh, new restaurant in Alphabet City and asked a guy in a black suit (amidst other guys in ratty chinos and un-tucked oxford shirts) about my reservation. Like a gentleman, he laughed and explained in a sexy Aussie accent that he wore a suit because he was a sharp dresser, not because he was a host at this restaurant. Blushing cheeks, a good laugh and I had Jack’s phone number.
Jack the Australian had cool, blue eyes and black hair, and if I need to say more than that, I can. He was an air traffic controller. An extra cool, rom-com worthy job. He quickly racked up bonus points; funny in a dorky way, up for anything, including flea markets and whiffle ball, and actually used dish soap. He even had a continual Scrabble game going with his elderly neighbor. Keep reading »