A few weeks ago I went to lunch with a man I'd dated for a little while. Because we're friends, now. Which, you know, feels very mature.
And so we do things. Like go to lunch. And as we were parting ways, I had a thought and turned to him:
Every time I turn on my gas stove I think about you. Which, well, it must be that the scent of the gas is somehow connected to you? And how could that be? And do you think maybe you have a gas leak in your apartment?
Oh. Yeah. I do, was his response. Without batting an eye or missing a beat, Oh. Yeah. I do.
And I sighed. And laughed, just a little.
Dating in New York. So it goes.
I'm waiting for that scene in a rom-com.
Editor's Note: I have been assured that the super was called and the gas-leak was taken care of.