Modern love, Prose

Blind date at the opera.

New york — Just the first name, I tell my friend at the Dia de los Muertos party, willing the preservation of some mystery. Guests in zombie face make-up and metallic capes refill their glasses near us as she decides how to introduce me to someone I should meet. Because it’s always who are you dating and not are you, as though this is an exercise regimen or dosage of vitamins, a placeholder preferable to an ...