What I used to do on my laptop, late at night in my apartment, I’m now doing on my phone after a solo dinner in a stealth-wealth mountain town.

I’m sitting in front of a fire that’s gone quiet. No flames left. Just heat and color.

I used to write about the men I met. Their homes. Their stories. The way they carried themselves. Now it’s other people’s men. Different faces. Same ages. Same observations.

The place was full of couples. Some established. Some still in formation.

The newer couples held my interest. I used to be one of them. Looking for a different taste of life through the vehicle of a man. Laying the charm on thick. Not necessarily for the man himself, but for where he might take me.

These women were decades older than I was when I was doing this. I watched them with appreciation. It’s nice to know some abilities stay with you. Should times ever require them again.

Money really changes the math. Age becomes less important. Looks become less important. Someone will touch your arm when you speak. Laugh at the right moments. Look at you like you’re the only person in the room.

Meanwhile, none of my broke friends in Los Angeles or San Francisco are having an easy time of it. Which feels strange. Weren’t those cities famous for making poor men interesting?

There was a time when a guitar, a screenplay, or strong opinions about coffee could carry you surprisingly far.

The food was delicious. The music was great. The bartenders were friendly, and two-thirds of them were hot. But what made the place memorable was that nobody looked at their phone. There wasn’t a policy. It was voluntary.

Maybe it was the age of the crowd.

I couldn’t decide if the absence of phones was desire or wealth.

Maybe that’s what money buys. The luxury of not checking. Not refreshing. Not worrying about what might be waiting for you somewhere else.

Or maybe everyone there was hoping for something that required their full attention.

A man asked the couple next to me if they were married. “We’re hanging out,” she said. Not dating. Not seeing each other. Hanging out. I know what that means.

His thumb rested in the strip of skin between her jeans and her lower back, the one low-rise denim leaves exposed. Familiar territory for two people who are just hanging out.

The man who asked the question, and the man who didn’t answer it, spent most of the evening talking about private equity and their successful children.

The executives at work talk about their successful children, too.

I’ve only observed this in two settings, but that’s enough for me to form a theory. Rich people talk about their children the way everyone else talks about the weather.

Which makes me think of Ross’s mother, perpetually upset that none of her three children are particularly successful.

Maybe it’s not the disappointment that’s bothering her. Maybe it’s the lack of material.

There were quite a few Ross’s mothers in the room. Not necessarily narcissists. I didn’t eavesdrop enough to earn that diagnosis.

But they seemed to be after the same package. A comfortable life. An excellent dinner. A man whose enthusiasm had outlasted the calendar, however that was being achieved.

The heat that comes from being wanted.

From being valuable enough to be worth a drink and a good meal.

Interesting enough to be listened to for an hour or two.

But that’s the thing about heat. An hour or two passes. The drink is finished. The dinner ends. The conversation finds a natural stopping place.

And eventually, the fire is just color.