My "Girl Hiring P/T Boyfriend" (Craigslist Posting)

Finally got around to memorializing the Craigslist posting I wrote a little over a month ago, in search of a part-time boyfriend, that amounted to nothing. Admittedly, I was pretty bummed because I was convinced my future boyfriend was lurking somewhere on the Internet, on Craigstlist. I presume all the decent ones spend their free time looking for boyfriend gigs online anyway!
(Click below to enlarge and read. Enjoy.)

My Automated Response 

(for the record, Conor Ford is a dear friend and colleague of mine whom I would never imagine dating in a million years because he is overqualified. His application was a kind and friendly gesture, and I adore him all the more for it.):

We Walked Into a Speakeasy

On the way to the subway, we walk by two men grilling on a Charcoal. It's steak. We stop to flare our noses and inhale deeply. We must have looked desperate because they invite us inside, "the oldest speakeasy in Brooklyn, girls! Thursday nights are our best." We pause, pass, and walk three blocks. The smell of steak is still clinging to our ankles, so we turn around and follow it back to the speakeasy.

We walk in, it's Midnight In Paris, Woody Allen's film. Both of us marvel at how lucky we are; two paycheck-to-paycheck gals who can barely afford plane tickets out of the state, suddenly finding themselves in a different decade. Girls are wearing matted rouge and frilly garments, whispering out loud and laughing widely. We're embarrassed by our own dull appearance (to be fair, we didn't know we were going to time travel). There is a gray-haired man singing about love and heartbreak (what else) in a soulful baritone. A guy on the piano with shoulder-length hair who also has a bass strapped around him, another on the drums, another on the electric -- all indifferent to twirling girls and devoted to their music mistresses instead. I swoon at this lack of interest and grow warm watching them pluck their ladies down below. My friend goes to the bar and comes back with a bottled spanish Coca-Cola for me and a glass of whiskey for her. The men who initially invited us in, come over with a plate of diced steak! One can just feel the strain of the communal table as everyone eyes each other, then the steak, testing themselves, timing their own hand-to-steak-to-mouth as best as they can. Self-control: swallowing greed, their own saliva, skipping Mississippi's as they countdown to their next slab. All the while, I'm amused at how everyone grows shy in the presence of a magnificent, delicious beast. We stay there until 2 in the morning, we feel so childish and happy we want to cry. Drunk off nostalgia and Coca-Cola. Wanting so badly, the strength of a man's arms around my frame all of a sudden. Relieved that Thursdays loop, hoping the speakeasy might appear again.

The journey back home is still a blur, all I remember is how sad I felt when the music stopped.