I provide unrequested constructive criticism on Hector's Tinder bio until our food comes.
"Do you realize you've ordered the exact drink or meal as me since we've met?"
The size and salt of the ramen agitates me. We decide to go to St. Marks Place. It is a street my parents partied on 50 years ago.
Subway to St. Marks Place.
The journey rejuvenates us. Hector and I bounce around St. Marks, laughing and making small talk. We order shots of tequila at a karaoke bar. He happily joins me when I perform Fall Out Boy's "Sugar We're Goin' Down." He and I have similarly poor taste. I show him photos I've starred on my phone that live in the favorites section: clothes, memes, and tattoo ideas. Two dogs crossing heads.
"Excuse me, are you open?"
"For something small, yes."
"OK, on this thigh then."
"OK. These are greyhounds, right? What kind of meaning do they have to you guys?"
"None, we just met."