I start to feel Sam’s hands when I pull away and ask him what he’s looking for. On the couch, we look through a few of his magazines before he leans in to kiss me. I am losing at pool, and the lighting in here sucks. We talk about work and my tentative plans for Mexico before deciding on a place to play pool.ĩ p.m. Sam and I are at a dive bar in lower Manhattan. For some reason, I’m reluctant to date other writers, but we banter and he seems funny. I get a message on Tinder from Sam, who I learn is also a writer. I look up one-way tickets to Mexico.ġ p.m. I make a living freelancing for magazines and doing copywriting, and while it’s nice making my own schedule, lately I’m tired of working from home and feel a certain malaise toward New York City.
I heat up some bone broth and pop an Adderall before checking emails. It is far too early and I am hungover from one too many Moscow mules last night.ĩ:30 a.m. I wake up to the sound of my neighbor yelling at someone. This week, a woman flies to Mexico to get away from the city (and its men): 29, single, New York.Ĩ a.m.
