I was starting to lose a bit of my confidence. It was 9:14 and fifteen minutes late was really late. I went over word by word our conversation about the plans. Maybe this was the wrong time or the wrong place?

I was thinking I should leave when the black door burst inward and I saw Grant enter. I knew him right away. He was wearing a dark blue sweater and a suede caramel-colored jacket and khakis. The pants were a dead giveaway; all male writers wore non-wrinkly pants, for all those hours spent sitting in front of a computer. We locked eyes in the dim room and he rushed directly to me, nearly colliding with a waitress en route.

“Dani, I’m so sorry I kept you waiting. I never do that.” Grant extended his hand. His grip was firm, and he put an arm on my shoulder, not quite a hug, but physical contact in an assuring kind of way.

“It’s okay,” I lied. “I just got here.”

Grant sat down and signaled for the waiter. “Dani, before we get started, I have a confession to make. This isn’t exactly a blind date for me.”

He was talking like a kid who’s done something naughty.

“Really?” I asked, intrigued. “What do you mean?”

“I saw a picture of you in that TV Guide article about Maggie Black.”

“Oh God!” I exclaimed, feeling embarrassed. “And you remembered me from that? That’s surprising.”

“Well, it stood out in my mind because I remember showing it to the guys in the writing room and saying, ‘Why doesn’t anyone who looks like this work with us?’”

“Oh,” was all I could eke out. This all pleased me greatly. His tardiness was forgiven.

Grant insisted on ordering for both of us, which was cool with me. He was obviously really excited about the sashimi and said something about “pure protein.” As if that should electrify me. He was what some people would describe as “folliclely challenged,” but I liked that. A smooth head was sexy. If anyone was going to have crunchy, product-loaded hair on the pillow it should be me, not the guy lying next to me. I’d take someone who was a Nice Jewish Guy who looked like Grant any day over a hotheaded Irish guy with a full head of hair.

We went back and forth with the usual basics. We both had the Kabuki of it down: He told me his funny, self-deprecating story, and I fired back with mine. Neither of us mentioned any former relationships. The first date was when you revealed your best self, not your real self.

“How did you become a writer?” I asked.

“Well, much to my parents’ disappointment, I didn’t become a lawyer.”

“Really?” I asked, acting surprised. I already knew a lot of this from the Google search.