Knowing Nods

Phil and I raise our Manhattans and toast to our first vaccinations. Our chum chatter is all about possibilities: live shows at the nearby playhouse, in-person yoga classes, the summer soiree circuit. Anything for a return to some semblance of normalcy.

“And a toast to you too,” I say turning to a Jude Law lookalike, our age, in khakis, Oxford cloth button-down shirt and tweed sportscoat, seated across at the only other table on the second floor of The Boat House. The couch between us decommissioned for now with a ribbon running across it.

“Thanks, you as well,” he replies raising an imaginary glass, having just ordered a Merlot and advising the server that one other will join him shortly. He cheeses at each of us before gazing back at his phone.

It’s my modus operandi to spark small talk with strangers here at what has become Phil’s and my “Cheers.” Cozy, oozing vintage nautical charm, oils and lithographs patchwork the walls and vine up the vaulted ceiling from which a model of a passenger liner is suspended in midair. An establishment that only serves classic cocktails, wines, and beers, nestled in a courtyard on the New Jersey side of the Delaware River, in a town known as the City of Lambertville. A bridge connects to its rowdier sister, the Borough of New Hope in Bucks County, on the Pennsylvania side, packed with bikers and ice cream lickers and once home to three gay bars now down to one for sale.

Like the staff, I am well-versed in telltale signs that someone is waiting on a date. Whether male or female. Gay or straight. The stylish attire, an expectant aura about them, sometimes with a bottle for the BYOB bistro next door, a request for a quiet corner. The gentleman’s crumpled forehead, his flash of disappointment upon arrival minutes ago as Phil and I cackled like long-cooped up hens in the corner.

“Is this a first date?” Phil goggles at my breaking some sort of protocol with my interrogation.

“As a matter of fact, yes it is,” the stranger replies.

“Sorry, don’t mean to be nosy. Okay, maybe I am.”

“No worries. Just so odd to be out and about again since you know.”

“Oh, we know. We’ll be out of your hair after this drink.” I turn to Phil who nods a bit too vigorously his way then takes a sip and gives me the stink eye. I dart back my ‘you see?!’ face.

“He wanted to meet up in New Hope but choices seem limited these days.” I flinch at the disclosed gender of his date.

“Also known as No Hope. Definitely not what it used to be,” I quip.

“Someone suggested this place. Never been here before.”

“Well welcome to our watering hole. Most romantic spot in the area.” I catch myself and take more of a gulp than sip and follow the bourbon burn down my throat. Phil tells me to cut it out with his eyes.

“Yes, it seems, Mr. Howdy,” the stranger says to me. He then turns to Phil. “And you must be Mr. MadBiker.” He raises his glass that has just arrived and gives a gotcha grin.

A cheeky yet charming chess move on his part to call us by our handle names on the men meeting men app named after more than just a five o’clock shadow. We reach for our phones to scroll and tap to find a shirtless ‘BFMaterial’ next to our own mug shots and is said to be less than 20 feet away. I still cannot get over the witchcraft of GPS.

“Touché,” I say as I nod Mr. BFMaterial’s way and raise my glass even higher. He returns the favor. Phil acts out charades for me to put away the phone then draws me into a current events conversation. The Catholic Church not sanctifying same-sex marriage. More attacks on Asian-Americans. Serious topic threads to tread warily certain that he wants me to focus his way as not to cause further embarrassment. Phil knows me well. I’d like to know the date’s name handle so I can check out his profile and track his progress towards us and Mr. BFMaterial who is now texting.

We order another round. After an extended back-and-forth of Netflix must-sees and a rundown of everyone in our social circle, we share another Manhattan. We have grown louder on our empty stomachs, even forgetting that someone is within earshot. I check to see that it is already half past six. Phil and I have been at the bar just shy of two hours which calculates to Mr. BFMaterial being here for almost an hour.

He is hunched over his phone. The server has not checked-in on him the entire time. As if he senses the sear of my stare, he looks up, though not our way. He raises the nearly empty glass towards a window. He tilts his head and swirls the wine like a lab scientist would what’s in a beaker, inhaling its notes, observing the play of now daylight savings sunlight on the dark blues of the grape, a translucence he seems entranced by, perhaps in search of sediment, or a code to unlocking a long unsolved mystery.

I send Phil a non-verbal that it’s time to go. Mr. BFMaterial lets out an audible sigh, texting vigorously, intent on not making further eye contact. We don our masks and scurry downstairs to settle our bill. There is no small talk between us and the server, nor the bartender, though words are not needed. We are all attuned to what is unfolding upstairs. That it’s not the first time. Nor the last.

Phil and I head down the alley towards our cars. I scratch my masked nose.

“Hold on one second.”

I return inside and hand over three tens to the server. “For another Merlot please. And to cover his first.”

She nods. As do I before catching up to Phil.