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The Village Doctor

This post pairs best with a vintage merlot and foreign electronic music

Addison met Duke at a low lit restaurant bar in the West Village. 

He always seemed to be coming from a 24 hour shift at the hospital — a little drowsy and disorientated, yet somehow immaculately dressed like a Rag & Bone model. He was sporting three day old stubble (the perfect amount in her opinion) that lightly shaded in his dimples and square jawline. 

Duke was different than she had expected. Doctor types in New York City were supposed to talk themselves up, name drop Yale, or tell a story about the time they resuscitated a drowning baby (that really translated to, I just want to get laid.)

Of course, Duke wanted to get laid too. But he went about it in a more intriguing way… with less ego and more wit. He didn’t pitch her all of the reasons why he was a catch. She had to figure him out on her own. 

Instead of the drowning baby, he told her the story of a man who (warning graphic content), shoved a Magic 8-Ball up his butthole and selfishly arrived at the ER an hour before Duke’s would-be end of shift. 

“It wasn’t the first time he’s done that and it won’t be the last,” he said, straight-faced. For days to come, Addison found herself randomly laughing out loud about Magic 8-Ball guy in public as she was climbing the steps of a subway station or stepping out of the office for lunch. 

During the date, Duke ordered a red blend recommended by the wine purveyor waiter. At age 32, he was six years older than Addison. But that’s how she liked her men: matured over time —  aged to perfection. If men her age were Barefoot Pinot Grigio, Duke was a vintage merlot with a complex flavor profile. Men his age tended to drink wine out of real wine glasses, instead of whatever clean mugs they had laying around.

But dating Duke wouldn't be easy. He worked long hours and that came first. She could see how patients in critical condition trumped the urgency of text message banter she craved on occasion. 

Addison wondered if she required more attention than he could allocate for her. Would she be better off with someone who worked a 9–5 in sales and could send her good morning texts and promptly reply to her memes? 

After drinks and bites, she chose the next place. A cool menswear store in the Lower East Side that was throwing a holiday party. It was a young brand with a fresh take on prep…not pretentious country club prep. It was inclusive and vibrant . The two walked into a packed store with some of the most well-dressed New Yorkers Duke had ever seen. It was like a fashion week party but more underground. 

IPA cans were passed around, a DJ spun Addison-approved vibey hip hop, and a competitive game of ping pong was taking center stage. The night ended when Duke was officially too sleep deprived to be charming (and coherent) and the two went their separate ways. 

They wouldn’t see each other again until after the holidays — approximately three weeks (three months in New York time). She wondered if they could withstand their New York City attention spans. 

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