by Ryan Dodge photos by Anna Sweet
I
n May 2008, I began writing a dating blog for Glamour magazine. My search for true love has so far been in vain, but in the meantime I’ve discovered some interesting places in Brooklyn to grab a cup of coffee, distract myself from work, and moon over unattainable women.
Building on Bond Pacific and Bond, Boerum Hill Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. “Hey, how’s it going?” I ask. My face is tingling and flush and it’s hard to breathe. “I’m good. How are you?” She’s just as cute as I remember, like the quiet but knowing girl in high school who played soccer and politely laughed at all of your nervous jokes. We only dated for two months and it has been at least that long since she gave me the boot, so according to the Generally Accepted Relationship Recovery Principle (Duration of Relationship ÷ 2 = Recovery Period) I shouldn’t be considering suicide by butter knife right now. What can I say? I really liked her. “Want some cheese? I think it’s pecorino. Mighty tasty,” I stammer. I haven’t yet figured out whether Building on Bond is a coffee shop or a restaurant, so I always get something to eat. I like pretty much everything about the place, from the quiet, tree-lined locale to the high-design hardware store aesthetic, which features lots of unfinished wood and exposed fixtures. The clientele is an attractive mix of youngish yuppies reveling in their postWilliamsburg/pre-Park Slope lifestyle. The girl is a foodie, and I’m glad I passed over my usual Greek salad in favor of the more gastronomically interesting cheese plate. We wax inane for
a few interminable minutes before she rejoins her friends at a table a few feet away from mine. It takes every ounce of fortitude to resist the overwhelming impulse to throw a wad of cash on the table and scamper out like a spooked gazelle. Instead I push aside the plate, open my laptop, cue up The Best of Joy Division and pretend to work, not once looking up from my screen. She’s in my neighborhood, this is my overpriced coffee shop, and I won’t be chased away, even if every moment I spend in her presence makes me feel progressively worse about myself. Forty minutes later I’m halfway through “Digital” (“I need you here today, don’t ever fade away, don’t ever fade away…”) and three-quarters done with my cheese. I absentmindedly stare at a woman sitting at the counter, a beautiful boho chick with a paigeboy haircut and the air of someone who knows exactly how attractive she is, the type of woman I think I want. The type of woman I actually want has been avoiding eye contact with me for the last forty minutes. The album ends, as good a cue as any. I deliberately pack up my things, keeping my back to her. I give her a chicken-armed wave as I walk past her table. Her smile, sad and knowing, breaks my heart all over again. I haven’t been to Building on Bond since, but you should give it a shot—the pecorino really is delicious.