A month later, I arrived at the Waldorf Astoria. After ascending the polished, marbled double staircase, I walked through a glistening room, crystal chandeliers lighting a path down the mirror-lined hallway.
I reached the end of the hallway, taking a moment to twirl once in the final mirror. Scooping up the air around it, my dress acted like a propeller, blowing open the large, golden-trimmed, double French doors. Completing my spin, I faced the open doors and walked, one 4-inch, black suede Mary Jane heel after the other, into the Grand Hall.
Only knowing one person at a party of thousands, everyone seemed to blur together—a sea of business professional attire. At one point, in my lackluster game of Follow-the-Sam, one particular boy caught my eye. Assuming anonymity as I walked past, I, ever-so-obviously, checked the boy out and shot him a great smile—an isolated moment of entertainment.
Hours later, I spotted my eye-candy crush and his date walking toward where Sam and I were standing. Perhaps it was the current conversation I was trapped in about New York City cab fare; perhaps it was the five vodka soda’s the Waldorf’s open bar had so graciously provided, but, before I knew it, I had moon-danced away from Sam, done an about-face toward my new prospect, and proclaimed, “I just can’t take it anymore. What’s up with you?”
His name was Jon.
“Oh my god! I just graduated from college too!” We already had so much in common.
His date was his best friend, not his girlfriend. The three of us talked for fifteen minutes, an oblivious Sam joining for the last five. The best friend and I bonded over living in Brooklyn, and I gave her my number, keeping eye contact with Jon as I said each digit.
In the weeks following the party, mine and Sam’s communication reverted back to Google Chat until our relationship eventually fizzled away.
Following the fizzle, John and I began to date.