One Bar, 3 Dates
The Mulberry in Nolita, 3 times over
I never know if I’m addictive, or if I like routine, or if the answer is somewhere in between. It’s nice to have one thing to return to repeatedly, but it’s sort of scary and thrilling when that thing changes even amidst your routine. But that’s what the comedy of life is built on, no? Punchlines and divots and reminders that intention will always matter the most.
I’ve been very into 3s. Partially because of the Holy Trinity. Partially because of this strange Tesla rabbit hole of my ex’s and a very particular corner of internet I found myself in, and partially because of a funny comment a friend made to me over 3 am Topo Chicos as I struggled to find a place to spit out my gum. (I chew 3 pieces at a time)
I love going to one place 3 times. Or maybe the idea of going somewhere 3 times is the latest in a long line of very particular and often theoretical fixations. Perhaps it feels like my own little experiment. How does a place change in a different light? With a different companion? With a different version of you?
I have strong thoughts in this me.
I will tell you about one of the times here, but the others will be letter only. If you share this (or any of our) letter(s) online, if you document it digitally in any way, you will be blacklisted from the Hot Literati mailing list (permanently). I will be putting an identifier on each. We will know.
Now, onto the date.
TIME NUMBER 2
Going out of order, for principle and privacy
I met 2 on a Sunday. I’d just gotten back from the pool with my Friend and publicist, and even though I was drunk on sunlight and as sleepy as I can get, something was calling me outside, was calling me specifically to this one restaurant to get this one side dish.
I called them to see what time the kitchen closed, and when I realized I still had time, I put on some jeans and a vintage Nike tank that says “Good Girls Steal” and set out.
I was walking slow, pulled down by some force (and old broken, down Air Force ones with no support), feeling the energy of my own body, my own spirit around me.
I passed a group of 3(!) men and made a moment of eye contact with one, but continued on to the crosswalk.
I didn’t try to make the light. I don’t believe in rushing, and sure enough, I look over my shoulder and the man I’d made eye contact with was approaching.
He seemed immediately kind. Working in a niche luxury industry, but wasn’t annoying about it. Family Business.
We exchanged info, and I kept on my way to get that one dish at that one place (I’ll share in the letter).
I had a good evening. Ran into a few people I knew wandering around, until I finally went home and to bed.
Then, the week, then the weekend. We met at this bar I write at but probably won’t write about until I’m sick of writing there. He bonded with everyone. Got platonically hit on:
“Good looking dude,” the man to his left said to me, about him.
Then we went to The Mulberry, the place in question, for a drink. A friend of mine had told me about it. This was my second time here.
“You’ve been here before” the lady at the door said.
I nodded and asked for her name. It was unique, like Hailo, but got mixed up with one other word in my head, and I lost the confidence to use it.
And he, 2, was thrilled at the spot. Sent a photo to his friend who he was trying to out-scene.
I got the Vesper. He, a Cucumber Spritz. He commented on the sidecar. This was my first time having a Vesper I really really liked. And I’m not sure if it’s because expensive drinks in underground bars actually are better, or I’m getting older, but both options intrigue me.
(My ex and I recently met up a few times for a few drinks. Each time he tried mine, he made a face. Each time I tried his, I found it too sweet. People change.)
He got a little touchier. (2, not my ex) Put a hand on my back. I went to the restroom. Returned. We chatted, circling around the same subjects we’d started the date with, just a little louder, a little more slurred.
He went to the restroom. The women to my left asked me to guess one of their ages.
I am always intrigued by those who are proud of preserving their youth. It always takes me back to William Wordsworth. I think I’ve gotten past this hunger for childhood by learning how to look upon the world as a giant playground.
One of the women, who was engaged and dabbled in ASMR, asked politely to grab my ass (I was wearing a little vintage ribbed dress with lace trim). I giggled and said sure.
Eventually, 2 and I left. He informed me that our friends to our left had been making out while I was in the restroom.
When I sent 2 home that night, I got the sense that this had been a sort of fantasy date for him in which I was a wonderful, whimsical girl.
I feel like that a lot to people. A character. I admittedly lean in sometimes. Only when the writing is good. And it was on my second night at The Mulberry. But it was something entirely different on the 1st and 3rd times. A different set, with a different cast.
Everything has layers. Nuance. Perspectives.
Last summer, I was fixated on clubbing. The primal parts of people that come out. Now, I’m fixated on physical places and sets of 3s, and change.
And mail.
Purchase the story of the other two dates HERE
Print only. Limited supplies. One girl can only mail so much (I learned this with Musca)