OnHINGEd: Entry 4.2. PART 1.

"An 8 hour date requires 2 Parts"

Okay, 2BD — this is a milestone. A second date with the same guy? Unheard of. Congratulations to Mr. Dimples, whose stellar first-date performance unlocked a sequel. The “lawyer” bit from the screenshot at the end of Entry 4, Date 4 sealed the deal (or maybe it was the dimples themselves; I can’t decide). Either way, it was on.

Navigating the week between the first and second date is an art form. You want to keep the momentum alive with a few texts, but not overdo it. One thing I forgot about before this series? How much having a dating app on your phone turns you into a chronic checker. And you will check it. All. The. Time. To the point where I found myself on the subway, wishing I had a privacy screen — not because I was blasting the official Les Misérables Broadway soundtrack (no shame) but because I was swiping and refreshing my chats from Canal St. to Grand Central. Worse, I caught myself sneaking off to the bathroom at work, hoping for a notification from Dimples. I couldn’t help it. He was probably stuck in his cubicle, pondering the valuation of… whatever analysts ponder.

Ugh, now I’m picturing him in a suit.

Meanwhile, I was prancing around the office (yes, I have a day job — or more of a night job, I guess), polling my favorite coworkers over whether to reply with a “:)” or a “;)” to his latest text. There is a difference, okay? The truth is, I shouldn’t have stressed about the minor details. I had already taken matters into my own hands and locked this date in. See, I’m a big believer in manifesting, and two weeks prior, I’d set my sights on attending an invite-only absinthe pop-up bar with someone special.

It’s this brilliant startup that just made its way from LA to NYC, founded by a fellow alum of my university. The slots sell out quickly, and each event is held at a secret location. I managed to snag two tickets for the final night at the founder’s house in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. Chic. Sexy. Mysterious. I had high hopes, and if the vibe was anything like the LA events, we were in for a night.

But Dimples knew none of this. All he got was a text: Friday, 8 pm in Fort Greene- address to follow.

To which he responded, “You taking me there to kidnap me??🫨”

Me: Come and find out (with my new favorite emoji, courtesy of a failed Hinge match, we’ll get to that eventually)

Dimples: Ohh I’ll be there.

Me: NOTHING. I let him sizzle in curiosity like bacon in a greasy pan.

On Wednesday at 11:17 pm, curiosity gets the best of him, and he double texts—

Dimples: You going to give me any context??

Me: wow you really couldn’t wait til Friday huh

Dimples: Fine fine I’ll wait

Thursday rolls around, and I decide it’s time to give Dimples a little tease of what to expect. Naturally, I consult my roommate and fellow 2B resident — let’s call her Rufus. She gets creative, suggesting I throw him off the scent by snapping a quirky window display and telling him that’s the dress code. Genius. Cue me spending the next 20 minutes wandering my neighborhood in search of the perfect display. No luck. “You can’t force the right photo. It has to find you,” Rufus reassures me when I trudge back through the door, defeated. “It’s New York City,” I huff. “I can summon a family of rats without trying — why can’t I find a funny window display?” Luckily, the universe (and the barista at work, whom we’ll call Lady Macbeth) had my back. Not only did she hook me up with my usual cortado, but on her way to work, she spotted the most adorable elderly couple on the subway, dressed to the nines. It was perfect.

I’ve never texted myself a photo so fast. Dimples needed to see this.

So, he got the joke — and played along. I liked that. A lot.

And then… I threw him a curveball. A bold, potentially OnHINGEd curveball. About 68% of my friends thought I was criminally insane for what I sent next. The other 32%? They believed it was a test — a test to see if he could ultimately match my freak.

At 6:50 PM, I texted:
That’s okay, I wanna see your hairline anyway.

Really? Yes, that is absolutely something I would say. But to Dimples? Now? The moment I hit send, I spiraled. Full existential crisis. I was beside myself with regret.

When I tell you I locked my phone in a drawer after sending that text, I am not being hyperbolic. Thank God for Lady Macbeth. An actor herself, we practically directed and shot an entire short film at the coffee bar, capturing the four distinct stages of grief and fear that follow a risky text. Not even a sexy, risky text. No. A personality-exposing text. A weird-ass text.

The stages are as follows:

Stage 1: The LOL.
It’s just banter. Kinda quippy. Kinda cute. Honestly? I’m proud of that one.

Stage 2: The Double Take.
You reread it through his POV. Was that too much? Maybe. Probably. You begin to reflect.

(It is often a very quick and brutal transition from Stage 2 to Stage 3.)

Stage 3: The Doomsday Panic.
It’s over. He’s never responding again. You’ve exposed yourself as a complete weirdo, and now you must flee the country.

Stage 4: The Acceptance.
There is nothing left to do but wait. It’s agonizing, but you must surrender to the void.

I remind myself — you can’t say the wrong thing to the right person.

2:10 AM Dimples replies. Finally. It’s been hours, and he texts back at 2 in the morning? He really does work in finance.

Dimples: Should be easy for you to see since I shaved my head.

CONFETTI POP! Freak = matched.

With that, I finally told him where to meet me: the unassuming restaurant across the street from the absinthe tasting.

Relief washes over me like the machine that was about to wash my blouse for Friday’s date. That’s right — the TTLS gets retired after Date #1. Time to switch it up. Lace cami, black slacks, leather jacket, boots. Hair down, long, and wavy. I was feeling good and running late, booking it to the L train. Dimples texted that he got hit with some last-minute work. Classique! But honestly, I was relieved. It meant I wouldn’t be the only one showing up late. On the train, I pulled a move Rufus taught me: ask men for favors. Make them useful. My phone was sitting at a solid 21%, so I asked Dimples if he had a charger. He did — but it wasn’t charged. His response?

Dimples: Restaurant may have one.

Me: Who says we’re going to a restaurant?

Cue evil laugh.

I was seated on a bench outside the restaurant when I saw him cross the street toward me. He flashed that signature dimpled smile and waved before we greeted each other with a hug.

"Okay, now turn right back around," I said, nodding toward the street he came from. "This isn’t where we’re going."

He laughed, a little confused, as I led him toward a gated front yard. Dimples glanced at me, puzzled.

"Are you taking me to a house party?"

"Something like that."

The host appeared, ushering us inside and directing us down a narrow staircase. I pushed open the door, Dimples in tow, and stepped into the absinthe experience. Whoever owned this place had completely transformed it. The lighting was low, with candles flickering across the room. Small groups of people stood chatting, drinks in hand. The Strokes hummed softly from a speaker in the corner. The vibe was vibing. I glanced at Dimples, watching him take it all in. He seemed… impressed. So was I.

We perched on a couple of stools, waiting our turn for the tasting. The conversation flowed easily as we caught up on our weeks. He remembered details I’d told him the week prior — points for that. We sat close, very close, not averting each other’s gaze. Why hadn’t he kissed me yet? Patience, B. Patience.

Finally, we made our way to the bar for the tasting. As if on cue, Shades of Cool by Lana Del Rey floated through the room. Dimples tapped his foot to the beat, and I couldn’t help myself.

“Wait… you’re a Lana fan?”

“Shamelessly so.”

I tried not to fist pump. Huuuge Lana fan right here.

Once the absinthe ritual was complete and we clinked our glasses, we were led into the back living room — a cozy space packed with around 30 people.

“MINGLE!” called out the host.

I shot Dimples a look that said, Here we go, and maneuvered through the crowd, spotting two seats against the wall. This was going to be a brilliant litmus test — how does he interact with strangers? The two friends sitting to my right seemed friendly, so we exchanged hellos. One of them wasted no time, leaning in with a curious grin.

“So… how do you two know each other?”

Dimples and I smirked in unison. The two friends giggled.

“This is actually our second date,” I said, feeling a little shy.

“No way!” the girl gasped. “So that means we get to know you as you get to know you.” This just got interesting.

She quizzes us on where we are from, quickly concluding I’m a city girl and he’s a country boy — a dynamic we’d apparently have to “work through eventually.” Now, Dimples and I were the ones laughing.

Eventually, Dimples goes to get us another round, leaving me with my two new best friends. They immediately pull me closer, eyes wide with curiosity.

“He’s cute, girl. What’s the vibe? Tell us everything.”

“Oh, you know… early days. But he seems to have this quiet confidence, which I appreciate because I tend to have a bigger personality.”

“For sure,” the other friend nods. “You gotta make sure he leaves room for you to shine. He’ll either match that energy or be your biggest cheerleader.”

Dimples returns with my Cosmo and an unexpected announcement.

“A girl’s leg caught on fire at the bar. Candle incident.” Wait. What? So… this girl was (literally) hotter than me? Damn.

Kidding. I knew I had Dimples’ attention. I felt it when he gave me that once-over before I slipped off to the bathroom, when his eyes lingered as I caught up with the absinthe bar’s founder about post-grad life, and when he helped me with my coat, patiently waiting as I exchanged Instagrams with my two new besties on the way out. (Best believe I filled them in on 2BD once Dimples was out of earshot — shoutout to you both if you’re reading this, you rock. <3)

But, surprise, surprise… the night didn’t end there. Dimples broke the news that a work crisis had popped up, and he might need to head home to fire off a quick email before our next stop. I shrugged and told him to Do what you need to do. I’d entertain myself accordingly. He Ubered us back to the city, placing a gentle hand on the small of my back as I slid into the car. Only to be cruelly separated by the dreaded middle seat, like two kids in timeout, as the Manhattan Bridge rattled beneath us.

Why are you so far away?

The night was still young. I suppose.

END OF ENTRY 4.2. PART 1.

2B CONTINUED…