Why was he smelling his fingers?

Back in 2009, I was 24 and still agreeing to setups from friends because I believed in community and had not yet developed proper boundaries. He was 28, worked in “media,” and wore layered clothing in mild weather. These were different times.

We met at a cosy little restaurant in downtown Manhattan. The kind of place where every table is wobbly and the water glasses are just recycled jam jars. He was already seated when I arrived, which I appreciated. He stood up, smiled, and said, “Your accent is even better when you’re not shouting across a birthday table.”

Charming, I thought. Or at least mildly self-aware.

The first fifteen minutes were textbook first date. Small talk. Shared hatred of Times Square. A quick run-through of careers. He asked questions, laughed at the right moments. He told me he worked in content strategy, which in 2009 was just vague enough to seem impressive. I told him I worked in healthcare.

Then it started.

He dropped his hands under the table, fiddled with something. Napkin? Phone? Existential dread? Then he casually brought his fingers to his nose for a small sniff.

Okay, I thought. That was odd.

But then he did it again.

And again.

Every few minutes, like clockwork. Hands down. Fidget. Fingers up. Sniff.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even especially creepy. But it was consistent. I began to wonder if he was trying to solve some sort of olfactory riddle, or if maybe he was secretly developing a line of artisanal hand balms and needed real-time feedback.

I tried to stay engaged. I really did. But the more he talked about his “passion for storytelling through digital ecosystems,” the more I found myself wondering what exactly he was smelling.

By the fifth round of finger-sniffing, I caught myself leaning slightly backwards. It was like my body had decided to retreat before my brain had the chance.

He noticed. “Sorry,” he said, with a laugh. “I’ve got this weird habit. I don’t even realise I’m doing it.”

“Oh,” I said, smiling politely. “That’s alright.”

Which is British for “I am screaming internally, but I was raised to be polite at all costs.”

We wrapped up dinner shortly after. He asked if I fancied a drink at a nearby bar, but I said I had an early morning. I didn’t, but I also didn’t have the energy to watch him sniff his way through a Negroni. We said our goodbyes and I walked straight to a diner for a slice of cheesecake and a moment of silence.

Later that night, I texted my friend:
“Lovely bloke. Bit too into his own fingers. I think I’m good.”