I mentally review my last few dates. There was the guy who left me with the bill the other night. There was the guitarist who ghosted me after I downed espresso shots at 10 p.m. to stay awake for his midnight gig in Bushwick. There was the cute, floppy-haired movie critic who took me to the dive bar on his block for dollar-beers night, then asked me to cover the $4 check. I still have the crick in my neck from hooking up with the photographer who slept on a twin-sized mattress in a crawl space lofted above his microscopic studio.

“Look, you are a successful, badass entrepreneur. You can do way better than the unwashed schmucks you dig up from god knows where.” She holds up my phone hopefully. “The best ones are still on their way, I promise. Give me twenty more minutes and then we can head out if it’s a disaster. Deal?”

I tilt my neck to the right and revel in the satisfying crack. “Deal.”

I make a promise to give Carmen’s plan a chance, and soon, the night gets better. I wouldn’t necessarily call it great, but at least I’m entertained. I meet a producer who has a podcast about podcasts; a redhead who only identifies himself as an equestrian; a model who appears to be under the impression that this is a casting call; and an anesthesiologist who immediately places his hand on the small of my back and explains, “This is where I’d put the epidural when you go into labor with our children.”

I head to the quiet end of the bar to collect my thoughts. I wouldn’t date any of these guys on my own terms. But for the sake of my current situation, I could see myself not totally hating the podcast producer, Isaac, or the equestrian, Finn. They’re the most interesting, least creepy of the bunch, and they certainly have the right amount of square-jawed magic to reel in likes on Instagram, should our relationship ultimately progress to that level.

“Can I ask you a question?”

To my left, there’s a man leaning against the bar, holding a gin and tonic. He’s dressed sharply in a navy suit and lilac shirt, open at the collar. His cheekbones jut out at swoony angles and his wavy dark hair makes his brown eyes pop. He looks like a Disney prince who got lost at Ralph Lauren.

“Is this some kind of casting call?” he asks.

“Something like that,” I say.

I don’t recognize him; he’s not one of Carmen’s recruits.

“What are they auditioning for?” he asks, gesturing to the crowd of men sprawled across the middle of the bar.

I hesitate. “To be my boyfriend.”