He was tall—about six foot two inches with shaggy blond hair and bright blue eyes. He looked like Owen Wilson without even squinting.
Noah and I had matched on the dating app Bumble the day before. I was fresh into my San Francisco stint, staying at a hotel nearby until I found something permanent, and feeling electrified by all the specific heady freedom of being in the second half of your twenties. I had just gotten out of a long-term relationshipwith my college boyfriend, I was away from home for the first time in my life, and I was ready to date a Noah. Actually, I figured: I was ready to date a few Noahs.
He took a seat next to me, straddled the stool like it was a saddle, and waved over the bartender. “You up for a little adventure, Daphne?”
I was.
“Make us something strong and special,” Noah said.
The bartender, a woman in her thirties with tattooed sleeves, went to work.
“You been here before?” Noah asked me.
I shook my head. “I just got here yesterday.” I’d picked this bar because it was the first thing that came up on Google that was close by.
“To the city?”
“Yes. Just moved up from LA. I don’t even have an apartment yet. I’m at the Hilton for the next few days.” I gestured in the general direction.
“What brings you here?”
“A job,” I said. I felt proud. It was my first adult one. “I’m starting at a tech company.”
“Big industry out here.”
“You’re in school, right?”
All I knew is that he was getting his doctorate.
“I study meteorology.”
“Wow,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone doing that.”
“Loved it since I was a kid.”
The bartender set down our drinks in bowls. Noah picked hisup and knocked the side of mine. I took a sip. It tasted like rum Kool-Aid with ginger. Awful.
Noah licked his lips and closed his eyes. “No shot,” he said. He looked at me. Seemed to study me hard for the first time. “What do you say we go get a beer?”
“Please.”
Noah put down a twenty and a ten on the counter and then took my hand. “We’re just going to make a quick pit stop first.”
I felt his hand. It was large and broad. My fingers felt uncharacteristically petite, hidden. I liked it.
The night was balmy and warm. It was the start of summer and endless possibility. We started walking. He did not immediately let go of my hand.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To see some painted ladies,” he said.
We hiked up a hill. I had to tap him to slow down. I was not in the kind of shape that allowed me to traverse San Francisco. But then the street crested, and I understood what he meant. The Painted Ladies refer to seven row houses across from Alamo Square Park in San Francisco. They’re beautiful. Victorian detail and in bright colors—blues and yellows and even a little red, although they’ve faded with time.
Painted ladies all over the city were painted during the gold rush to show off the burgeoning wealth of the city’s residents. Now, they’re beautiful landmarks.
We stood across the street at the park, taking them in.
“Is one of these theFull Househouse?” I asked.
