I'm guessing when you live in a city where casual encounters are the norm, the odds of meeting someone without a hidden agenda are like winning the Powerball on an unsuspecting Wednesday night.
You hear men of his kind only exist in Cary Grant movies and Johnnie Walker commercials, yet there you are anyway having a conversation about the Middle East once he's bought you and your friend a round of overpriced drinks. He wants to know more about you, what kind of work you do and the things that ignite you. He listens attentively to your friend and tells the bartender to "bring her whatever she likes." It doesn't go unnoticed he's attractive and wearing a watch that costs more than your car and furniture put together. You find him intriguing and surprisingly funny despite the fact he's probably closer to your father's age than your own.
You have never dated a man much older than you and, truth be told, you've no intentions of starting now. You exchange numbers as a courtesy, wondering what life would taste like in a world where money isn't a subject of worry to those lucky few.
Over the next few days he rings you up and leaves funny messages. You answer on occasion and have light conversations around your favorite foods and why you refuse to eat pork or drink gin. He sends you flowers to work and you're relieved to find it's an art form not yet extinct. You eventually stop answering his calls and figure he'll soon get the hint, knowing you probably passed up your only opportunity at an elite gold digging experience.
On a Wednesday he calls and you answer by mistake, feelings of guilt washing over you as soon as you hear him smile on the other end of the line. He invites you to dinner at a restaurant where soup is $30.00 and movie stars go to be photographed pushing their food around their plates. You toy with the idea for a nanosecond but respectfully decline, offering that you twisted your ankle at the gym and can't leave the house for a few days. He doesn't believe you, but says he understands and hopes you feel better. When the line goes dead you know he will call and he knows you won't answer. The rat race will continue and you'll probably never get to try a bowl of lobster bisque that goes for what you make in two hours.
Later, he will find a girl whom he'll take to fancy dinners and whisk away to Greece for the summer as you sit in a cubicle at your dead-end job dreaming of Europe. You lay there quietly, stretching your perfectly okay ankles on your second-hand couch. Eventually you get up and convince yourself to go for a jog. On the way home you stop by the convenience store and buy a Powerball ticket with a can of lobster bisque and some cheap wine. You don't end up winning the lottery that night as expected, but your soup, just like life, is absolutely amazing.