Eli - the old guy

The phone buzzes against your nightstand just as sunlight starts pooling across the sheets. You grope for it, still half-asleep, and squint at the notification: Eli – Love Match.

Tom stirs beside you. “Who’s blowing up your phone at—” he glances at the clock “—eight in the morning?”

You smile a little. “The professor guy. Remember? The one with the beard.”

Tom props himself on an elbow. “Ah yes, your philosopher-king.”

You roll your eyes, thumb open the message. Eli’s first text isn’t a “hey” or an emoji — it’s a paragraph. Thoughtful questions, actually.

What drew you to journalism?

What’s something you’ve written that still feels like a part of you?

And what’s the last meal that made you feel grateful to be alive?

It’s oddly flattering. And a little intimidating.

Tom whistles softly. “Wow. He’s not wasting time.”

You bite your lip, rereading the questions. “He writes like he’s grading me.”

“Then ace the test,” Tom says, smirking. “What are you gonna say?”

You start typing, talking it out as you go — fumbling for something smart but not too polished. You write about how you like stories that find beauty in small truths, about late-night coffee-fueled deadlines, about your favorite meal being the Thai noodles from that hole-in-the-wall near Northwestern.

Tom reads over your shoulder. “That’s good. Human. But maybe drop one of your ‘hot’ pics so he knows you’re not just a brain.”

You laugh. “Excuse me?”

“I mean,” Tom says, grinning, “you are a journalist… but you also look like that in the morning.” He gestures vaguely at you, hair tousled, tank top loose on your shoulder.

You roll your eyes, but you blush a little too. “I’m not sending Eli a picture from bed.”

“His loss.”

A few minutes later, another ping.

You sound like a woman who appreciates conversation — and good food. How do you feel about dinner tonight? There’s a little French place I love. I’d enjoy hearing more about your writing — in person.

Tom whistles again. “Straight to the big leagues.”

You stare at the screen, heart ticking faster. “Dinner. At an actual French restaurant.”

“He’s got taste,” Tom says, teasing fading into something closer to curiosity. “You gonna go?”

You hesitate, staring at Eli’s photo — that warm, wry face framed by his beard, the faint glint of intelligence behind his glasses. He looks steady. The kind of man who doesn’t waste words.

“Yeah,” you say finally, softer than you mean to. “I think I will.”

Tom reaches over, squeezes your hand. “Then make it a good story.”

You smile. “Always.”

Tom snatches your phone before you can stop him. “Hold on,” he says, aiming the camera at you where you’re still half-buried in the sheets. “Eli needs to see the real you.”

You throw a pillow at him, laughing. “Tom, no!”

“Too late.” Click. The sound is merciless. He studies the photo with a smug grin. “Perfect. You look smart and mysterious — like you just woke up thinking about Proust.”

You grab the phone back, cheeks warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m supportive,” he says, settling back onto the bed. “And possibly a genius wingman.”

That evening, the apartment hums with nervous energy. You’ve torn through half your closet, trying to find the line between “professional curiosity” and “effortlessly alluring.” Tom’s perched on the edge of the bed, sipping his coffee and offering color commentary.

“That one’s too ‘interview at city hall,’” he says, nodding at the gray blazer. “Go for something softer.”

You hold up a cream blouse. “This?”

He considers. “Yeah. That says ‘I’m capable, but I might also laugh at your jokes.’”

You smile. “Exactly the message.”

As you pull on the blouse and smooth your skirt, the nerves start kicking in again. “He said he’d pick me up. Isn’t that… a little old-fashioned?”

Tom shrugs. “He’s a professor. He probably still writes emails in full sentences.”

You smile, but your fingers fidget with the hem of your sleeve. “It’s weird, though. Giving my address.”

Tom sets down his mug and takes your hand. “Hey. You’re not alone here, remember? If anything feels off, I’m right here. I’ll just—stay out of sight. Let the fantasy of single life live another day.”

You laugh, tension easing. “So you’ll be my invisible roommate-slash-bodyguard?”

“Exactly,” he says, mock-serious. “Operation: Secret Spouse.”

"Honestly, I'm glad that you picked a grandpa to go out with Claire..." Tom rubs his neck. "no chance he'll steal you away" he chuckles lightly, eyes remaining serious.

"oh Tom, I love you, no man could "steal me away" from you! I'm a professional. This is just a job."

A little later, you hear the rumble of an engine outside. You take one last look in the mirror — hair neat, lipstick subtle, expression somewhere between journalist and adventurer.

Tom peeks from the bedroom doorway and gives you a thumbs-up. “Go get your quote.”

You slip off your wedding ring and hand it to Tom, who pockets it with a nod. you give him a peck on the lips, so as to not smear your lipstick.

You grin, grab your purse, and head for the door.

Eli is waiting at the curb in a polished navy sedan, stepping out as you approach. He’s exactly as you imagined — beard trimmed, jacket perfectly pressed, eyes warm and observant.

“Good evening,” he says, smiling. “You look lovely.”

“Thanks,” you manage, the butterflies doing cartwheels.

As he opens the car door for you, you catch sight of the apartment window — and just for a heartbeat, the faint shadow of Tom’s hand, lifting in a small, unseen wave.

Then you’re in the passenger seat, the city sliding past the windows, and the night unfolding ahead.