I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room, and when I returned, there was a napkin on the table with a message:

ON CONFERENCE CALL. BRB.

I looked across the patio and saw Imran leaning across the rails, holding his phone in the air and yelling into his earpiece. I grimaced. Imran was that guy. That habitual cell phone talker who had lengthy discussions on his phone in public, soaking in the conversational limelight while forcing everyone in his vicinity to listen in. I turned away and shrank into my chair. I couldn’t believe I was on a date with that guy. The odds of this one being “the one” were highly unlikely.

Ten minutes later, Imran returned.

“Sorry about that. It’s practically impossible to get a decent connection out here,” he said, flustered.

“Yeah.” I nodded. “How annoying.”

Over dinnerw—despite his phone detonating every five minutes—I managed to learn that Imran had grown up in Chicago, was the youngest of four children, and played football in high school. He had created an account on Muslims Meet because according to his “ten-year plan,” it was time for him to settle down.

“Where do you see yourself in ten years?” he asked after sending out an email.

“Ten years.” I paused. “That’s a good question.” It occurred to me that I hadn’t really planned out my future beyond the three-month deadline. I knew I wanted to find Mr. Perfect. By July. But then what? Marriage? Kids? Would I ever teach abroad? Would I go back to grad school? Would I live happily ever after? “I guess I don’t know,” I admitted.

Imran furrowed his brows, but just as he started to say something: buzz.

Whatever thought he had was completely forgotten the second he glanced at the screen. I sighed and mentally crossed #9: ATTENTIVE off my list. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be in a relationship with Imran and his phone. There was no way I could compete with all that vibrating.

“Have you ever considered shutting that thing off?” I asked, taking a bite of my wrap.

“Huh?” He looked up.

“That.” I pointed at the phone in his hand. “Have you ever thought about just turning it off?”

“Oh, this?” He held it up, the screen flashing with messages. He laughed dismissively and glanced back down, his eyes scanning the texts.

I pushed aside the half-eaten wrap on my plate and dabbed the edge of my mouth with the napkin. “Perhaps we should go.” I motioned toward the exit.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he replied with his face still fixated on the screen, his fingers furiously clicking away.

The clicks continued as he paid for our meals, and they followed us all the way through the parking lot.

“So,” I said when we reached my car, “Thanks for dinner. It was nice meeting you, Imran,” I pulled open the door. “Oh, and tell Benson I said hi,” I joked as I sat down inside.