Andrews writes about what it is like for a young, black woman dating in [D.C.], trying to find a mate who seems ever elusive. The futile rituals are familiar: the dressing up, the eager cab ride over to the party, the hold-your-breath as you walk in, scanning the room quickly for any looks returned. The mantra sounding in the back of your head: "So-and-so found a man last year at a party like this. Maybe tonight is my night." Then one by one, the men prove to be disappointments and disappointing: married, uninteresting or uninterested.
The disappointment as you end up at the bar once again, committing straw violence in your drink (stirring the drink frantically and unconsciously).
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The Nina
You like her, admit it.
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