I dive into his list of available potential matches and start swiping. I have no clue what his type is, so I express interest in pretty much everybody. Aside from using dating apps for myself, I’ve only ever swiped for Carmen, Jess, Sasha, and Caroline. It never occurred to me what a different game this would be for a guy. I’m almost conditioned to expect a cheery, “It’s a match!” notification after every right swipe. Here, they rarely come. When one does—a match who looks strangely like me, even beyond the way that most twenty-something Williamsburg white girls look more or less the same—I find myself at a loss for words. I don’t know how to flirt with women.

Raj is back. “Find the love of my life yet?”

“It’s a work in progress.”

“Don’t I know it,” he says, checking out what I’ve done. He takes in the single, solitary match, and slides the phone into his back pocket. “Hey, so, I actually get off in a few minutes. I’m on the early shift tonight.”

I’m caught off guard by how empty the prospect of a night alone makes me feel. I like the easy comfort that Raj exudes.

“Do you wanna actually, like, hang out?” I blurt out.

Mercifully, the words don’t even have time to hang in the air before he responds, “Yeah, sure! What did you have in mind?”

Oh. I didn’t.

“Uh, you’re probably sick of hanging out here, right?” I ask.

“Yeah, this is basically the equivalent of my old cubicle.” He looks around and grimaces. “Not that I had an actual cubicle. It was all open floor plan—supposed to increase efficiency or some bullshit. Super startup-y.”

“Wanna come see my shop?” I ask. “I have a bottle of whiskey there and we can pick up a pizza.”

He laughs. “Those are the magic words.”

Ten minutes later, we’re on our way. I insist on paying for the pizza to thank him for all those free drinks. He protests, but ultimately hangs back when I hand my credit card to the cashier.

“Next pizza’s on me,” he promises.