“Well,” he continued—I suddenly noticed a sparkle in his eyes—“my ultimate dream is to become a Bollywood playback singer.”

I had to give it to him: that was one possibility that had not even crossed my mind. I was intrigued. What if this was the Bollywood fantasy I had been dreaming of my whole life? I never thought it would happen, literally, but I was suddenly pleased with my earlier decision to stick this date out. It would have been a shame if I had let a little gel and ostentation stand in the way of my Indian fairy tale. He was South Asian and Muslim (check). He had decent hair (check). He had a passion for cheesy love songs (check). The only thing missing was a meadow to run through leading us to our happily ever after.

“You’re kidding?” I said, taking in a deep breath. I had to remind myself not to get too excited yet. “What got you into that?”

“Well, I grew up listening to old Bollywood soundtracks. Mohammed Rafi, Lata Mangeshkar, Mukesh, that kind of stuff. Both my parents were real enthusiasts. And the older I got, the more aware I became that my own singing voice was up to par with—if not better than—most of the great singers out there.”

I took a sip of my tea and smiled pleasantly.

“So,” he continued, “I eventually realized that it was my responsibility to share this God-given talent with my people.” He pointed his finger toward me and winked.

“Wow. That’s so . . . generous of you,” I replied, ignoring his pretentiousness. “I haven’t met many guys who are into Bollywood music, so that’s cool. It sounds like a really unique hobby.”

“Hobby?” He chortled. “Dear Leila. It’s not a hobby. It’s a way of life.” He spoke in such a serious tone that I had to cover my mouth to hold in the giggles. “Would you like to hear some of my work?”

“Um, sure . . . Right now?” Before I had my answer, he had already pulled out his cell phone and a set of earbuds from his back pocket. “Oh, do you have some of your tracks recorded on there?” I asked, watching his perfectly manicured fingers skimming through his playlist, his pinkie raised.

“Here, put this on,” he said. He seemed pretty psyched as he placed one of the earbuds in his right ear and handed me the other.

I hesitantly stuck it in my ear; the familiar percussive beats mixed with a medley of strings and high-pitched instruments came blasting through the speaker. It took me a few moments to realize that it was the instrumental version of the classic love song “Dil To Pagal Hai” which loosely translates to “My Heart Is Crazy (For You).” I glanced over to find Omar with his right hand over the earbud, eyes closed, his head gently swaying to the rhythmic sound of the music. The scent of his cologne too close for comfort, I turned and coughed. I looked around the bistro. Was anyone else noticing how incredibly awkward this date had just become?