Dating-ish

There are three things you need to know about Marie Harris:
1) She’s fed up with online dating, 2) She’s so fed up, she’s willing to forego the annoyance and consider more creative alternatives, and 3) She knows how to knit.
After the most bizarre first date in the history of dating, Marie is looking for an alternative to men. With the help of her friends, she quickly identifies a few possibilities: Need a cuddle? Use a professional cuddler. Need affirmation? Get yourself a life coach. Need an orgasm? Try orgasm meditation! Why does she need the hassle of a romantic partner when she can meet all her needs with paid services?
But then her irritating date resurfaces. And he’s not at all the person she thought he was. And he suggests a different—and crazier solution to her dilemma . . .
"To say my hopes were high would be a gross understatement. My hopes had reached astronomical. Since our exchange of emails, I’d tried to curtail those blasted hopes to no avail. I couldn’t help my hopes. Don’t run away from me, hopes! I can’t move that fast in these heels and we’re in this together. But they did run away, hopping onto a spaceship—likely one of those SpaceX crafts that keeps infuriating Elon Musk by blowing up—leaving me on the ground, waving frantically, which was probably compounding my sweating problem. Arm waving at one’s high hopes while wearing a sweater dress in May
is a workout. But he’s perfect! This squealing nugget of optimism originated from some dark corner in my brain. Once I found the owner of this voice inside my head, I was going to . . . I didn’t honestly know. On the one hand, I didn’t want to be bitter and jaded, trading optimism for pessimism. Or worse, nihilism. Nihilism was the worst. And the perpetuators of it had no imagination when it came to accessorizing. All black, all the time? No, thank you. I checked the clock over the entrance for maybe the hundredth time just as a man walked through the door. My heart did an odd prickling thing, but then the sensation eased. He wasn’t Derek. The man was too short and had no beard. And he was clearly younger than thirty-nine, more like late twenties.
With another sigh, I returned my attention to the book in my lap. I didn’t even know the title, having grabbed it from the bookstore across the street in a fit of pre-date-overthinking-induced insanity. I didn’t want to wait for him by scrolling through messages on my phone. I felt like phone- scrolling was too prosaic. And I didn’t want to be one of those people who just stared forward or people-watched while waiting, even though I loved to people watch. And I didn’t— “You’re Marie.”