Things I have learned about Rafi in one day:

He really likes Aston Martins.

He plays the banjo in his frat's string band.

He doesn't drink alcohol.

He texts like a girl.

***

"That's sexist," Abby set her beer on the table-top.

"I'm a girl," I sought to defend myself. "I can't be sexist."

"Don't you believe in internalized misogyny or whatever?"

"All I'm saying is that he's a defective male," I looked around the casino dance-floor before us. "See all these guys? How many of them text girls 'good morning' and maintain text conversations throughout an entire day? Do you think any of them really cares whether the girl preferred Johnny Bravo or Dexter's Laboratory?"

Abby observed the dancers. Their flannel shirts, their baseball caps, their awkward, immovable hips and the uncomfortable shuffle of their feet.

"Dude, these guys are between the ages of 35 and 90," she finally said. "They probably say 'good morning' to their wives when they wake up each day. That doesn't make them defective."

"He hasn't ghosted me yet," I said. "He's already asked me to get midnight slushies with him tomorrow."

"Is that a sex thing?" Abby crinkled her nose.

"Slushies," I clarified. "At the 24-hour Wawa."

"Oh," she sounded relieved. "You should do it."

"We already exchanged probably two hours' worth of text messages today, I don't want to see him tomorrow on top of it-"

"Is he funny?"

"Yeah-"

"Do you like talking to him?"

"Yeah-"

"If ya like talking to him, see him tomorrow." Abby took a sip of her beer.

"But I need space-"

"Hate to remind you," Abby said, "but you're on a timeline here. The fact he's so into you can only help. The sooner you see him, the sooner you date, the sooner he can dump you."

Abby did have a point. My phone buzzed. Rafi. I had told him that I was going to bed. A lie, I know. But it was near 10:00 PM, and I didn't want to continue to play-text-message-Ping-Pong while bsing with Abby at the casino. I read the message:

            Sweet dreams! 💫

"He used the shooting star emoji," I said. "Defective."

"Did he double text you?" Abby asked.

"No," I said. "Like, there were maybe a couple hour periods where I didn't respond."

"He's fine then," she crossed her arms. "If a guy double texts you right away, eh, might be a sign you'll need a restraining order down the line. Sounds like he's cool," she smiled at me, "just smitten."

I snorted.

"What?" Abby said. "That's totally possible."

"Defective." I said.

Abby rolled her eyes and finished her beer.

"I'm going to get another," she stood up. "Assuming you don't want one?"

"Don't feel like crying into my toaster tonight." I said.

"Nobody is that bad on one beer."

"You don't understand," I said. "My toaster wouldn't sacrifice itself to save me from a junkyard car crusher. If I don't have that kind of a support system among my household appliances, what can I expect of my humans when it's crunch time-"

"Watch my phone." Abby plopped her Galaxy S in my lap and headed toward the bar.

***

The bar line was long. Abby had been gone five minutes.

I stacked her phone on top of mine and stared at the Saturday night act as they tested their microphones. The drummer had dreadlocks. The bassist was porky, with gelled hair and a questionable goatee. I really hoped it would be a ska band. Then the lead singer came out wearing a tie, the DJ turned off his set, and BAM, an amateur rendition of Pharrell William's "Happy" came out of the speakers. Absolute normie garbage. There was no way I'd be clapping along, no matter how desperately the singer implored his audience. What good was a room without a roof? I don't know what Pharrell would consider functional architecture, but I'd have to assume there'd be a roof somewhere in his blue-prints. A room sans-roof wouldn't do much to protect a person from the elements. Sure, in dry, dopey southern California, you could maybe get away with such an impractical design. But the rest of the world's living rooms would be drenched in snow and rain and nature. You can't be all that happy when you've got bad hair and pneumonia, Pharrell.

I found myself making accidental eye contact with a thirty-six or so year old dude with a low-cut V-neck gyrating slowly in the middle of the dance floor. About a half-second into this unhappy accident, I realized he might approach me to dance. He was bald, yet had a forest of exposed chest hair. His standards were likely low enough (or his blood-alcohol levels were high enough) for him to find me passably attractive.

As he took a step toward my table, I engrossed myself in Abby's phone.

From my peripheral vision, I watched him abort his mission, change directions and sway toward another table.

I was just about to set down Abby's phone, when it buzzed in my hands.

A text message.

Mike Gottler.

I opened it.

            Hey, had a great time the other day! Thought it might be fun to actually go to that farmer's market. I have nothing going on tomorrow, if you still don't.

"Whatcha looking at?" Abby set her new beer on the table top.

"You got a message from Mike Gottler," I said. "He said he had a great time the other day and wants to go to that farmer's market tomorrow." I handed over her phone.

"Great," Abby glanced at the screen and then flicked it off.

"When did you start going out with him?" I surprised at how quickly this was developing, but not that she hadn't said much about it. Abby could be a little tight-lipped when it came to boys. I wish I had her composure.

"A couple of weeks ago," Abby licked the foam on the top of her beer. "I've seen him maybe four times, including the christening."

"You don't seem as excited about this as I would expect you to be," I said. "He a douchebag?"

Full disclosure: I'd be deeply disappointed if the only guy we knew who owned a pool house turned out to be a douchebag.

"No." she paused, "he's great. He's dad material."

"What's the matter then?"

"I mean," she narrowed her eyes, "he's been engaged before."

"So? All that shows is he's capable of commitment." I said.

She opened up Instagram and pulled up his ex-fiance's profile.

"She runs a start-up in NYC," she handed me her phone. "She teaches cats with spinal-injuries therapeutic yoga."

"Cats?" I examined a heartbreaking photo of a calico kitten in a pet wheel-chair. "Who even cares about disabled cats? You're way cooler than this loser."

"She has her shit together," Abby said.

I read her Instagram bio.

"One of Forbes's Thirty Under Thirty?" I said. "Oh, somebody's a narcissist."

"She's a good person," Abby pointed at the most recent post. There was the ex-fiance, glowy (not sweaty) in purple yoga attire, being awarded the keys to the city by NYC Mayor Bill de Blasio. I read the caption:

I went out to buy ice cream and ended up single-handedly ending a human trafficking ring, all in one June afternoon. Don't let anybody tell you not to get dessert, ladies. You deserve it. #SelfLove #TaeKwonDoReallyComesInHandy #blessed

"Okay, so," I admitted, "she's pretty cool."

"She's getting her JD by night school," Abby sighed. "I'm punching above my weight."

"NOPE," I said, even though I was probably more intimated than Abby was. "Just because she's pretty and talented and a good person doesn't mean she is more dateable than you. You save people's lives every day, you work hard and you're very stable. Maybe Mike just likes how normal you are?"

"Thanks," Abby said, and took a sip of her beer.

"I'm serious," I said. "I think guys just want a stable, not-crazy girlfriend. And you are the least crazy person I know."

"Maybe," Abby shrugged. "He seems to really like that I'm a nurse. Apparently, he was 'critically ill' when he was younger and 'has a lot of respect for' my 'profession.'"

"Did he have cancer?"

"I don't know," Abby gave me the side-eye. "I didn't grill him for details."

"He probably had cancer," I said. "I don't really know what other kind of critical illness young people get that'd go away. Like heart disease, diabetes, those are life-long things."

"Got a point," Abby got quiet. "Maybe he had lymphoma."

"Probably testicular cancer," I said, like a real asshole. "That's the most common cancer among young men." I stumbled on that piece of trivia while researching chemo options for my Mom a few years back.

Abby's gaze ventured beyond the weirdos on the dance floor to some faraway thought.

"Lee," she said. "Oh no."

"What?" I asked.

"That could be why they broke up." Abby was incoherent.

"What?"

"Mike is perfect, his ex-fiancé is perfect," she said. "I was trying to figure out why they didn't have perfect children together."

"I don't follow."

"Maybe he can't have kids," Abby said. "She seems like she'd want to be a mother."

"You mean from the chemo?"

"Lee." Trouble built on Abby's brow. "What if he has no balls?"

"Like they were surgically removed?"

"I can't do this," Abby said. "I can't date a guy who doesn't have balls." She pressed her face into her hands. "I can't see him. I don't want to find out."

"Abby!" I shook her shoulder. "Chances are he has at least one ball."

"I'm gonna ghost him," she said. "This is over."

"ABBY!" I was so loud, she blinked at me. "You don't even want kids. There's gotta be hormonal patches or something." I said. "You'll be fine."

She pursed her lips.

"Look, I'll get slushies with Rafi tomorrow," I said, "but only if you go to the farmer's market with Mike. Deal?"

"Fine," Abby said. "Deal."

***