No one has asked me out in nine months. I met the last guy on Amtrak on my way home to Philadelphia after getting a haircut and splash of color in New York. The man was attractive and smart, but married. I turned him down flat. I didn’t look back when we parted at the 30th Street Station. No one has approached me since. And at the age of 64 and a widow, I am not looking.

Today I had my hair cut and colored in Philadelphia. The recession has forced me to curb the New York frivolous expenditure. The new hairdresser, who gave me a classic bob do, didn’t take tips so I gave him a bottle of Russian vodka. He’s Russian and was thrilled. I came home from the salon, read some e-mails, then put on my designer consigner (thrift store) fur coat to attend a library talk about the causes of the Civil War.

I arrived at the library and chatted briefly with the director and some other friends. When I moved to the side of the room to put my Coke down on a table, suddenly—and I do mean suddenly—a man consumed space around me, like we were old friends. He wanted to know my name, where I lived. It must be the chemicals hairdressers use…

I find with men, including my late husband, geography and dating go hand in hand. I passed the first round of questions because I live in the city. He next inquired, “Would I like to go to an art gallery some time?” The married man on the train had asked me to go to the Art Museum with him. And my dearly departed husband admitted to having picked up women occasionally at the Met in New York—before we were married, of course. Men and art museums... Did I know this guy from somewhere else, from another life perhaps? I kept my smile in place. He asked for my card, then he gave me his: Robert F. Smith, Employee Training and Marketing Consultant.

Bob told me he was a Penn State grad. I responded I had been to the Nebraska - Penn State game a few years back. He liked sports and said Nebraska (my alma mater) historically had a great football team. I agreed. We had experienced a rough patch lately, but Penn State seemed to be recovering from theirs. Conversations between Nebraska and Penn State alums do not always go this smoothly.

Enough about sports; we walked into the lecture hall. Bob and I sat behind one of my friends, who gave me a Who is this guy? look. The lecture was brief and vague. I guess vague because the speaker wanted us to buy his book for the details. Fine, I bought the book and had it signed. Bob followed close behind as I left the library building. Seemed I was his newly found treasure. I remarked it would be nice if I could have a plastic bag for the book, and Bob promptly pulled one from his pocket. I headed to the bus stop with Bob in tow. He asked if I wanted to stop and have a cup of coffee or cappuccino. Since when did I ever turn down a cappuccino?

Bob paid for the beverages at Starbucks. I stared at a giant chocolate chip cookie calling out to me from the case but turned and sat down across from Bob. “What is your sign?” I replied I was a Scorpio. He was a Capricorn. From my dating days, I knew this was bar talk. He persisted. He told me our signs were very compatible; we would be great companions, lovers; it would make for a very good marriage. He volunteered he had never married. He’d been engaged once in 1998, but a disagreement with the prenup broke that up. Wasn’t this going a little fast? He changed the subject and for a while we discussed the lecture and politics. Then Bob said, “I feel a nice comfort level when I am with you.” This was rushing things way too much for me.

Next topic: religion. Why not take care of all the sticky subjects—sports, politics, marriage, and religion—right away? His family had come from Wales; his grandfather had been a Welsh Presbyterian minister. But his mother’s family was Pennsylvania Dutch. I told him I was three-quarters German, one-eighth English, and one-eighth Swedish. He liked my scarf, my coat, my hair. My late husband had never been this demonstrative.

As we left Starbucks, Bob asked if I would join him Sunday for a musical event at the local Presbyterian Church. I said I would have to think about it. What I didn’t say was that the last time I’d been to the church was with Bill five days before he died of an aortic aneurism.

We walked down to my bus stop, and Bob mentioned a cocktail party he was attending at a major law firm. He wasn’t sure of the date. Could I call him when I got home? Sure, why not? We climbed onto my condo bus and sat. Bob shared that he’d been in the Navy during the Cuban Missile Crisis and had access to great medical care at the Vets Center on the Penn Campus. He added that he was collecting two pensions. Why is he telling me this? After college, he taught history for a while then worked for the State of Pennsylvania as an E.E.O. employment trainer. He got off the bus at 20th and Walnut.

When I arrived home I Googled him. He didn’t exist. I looked him up in the phone book and found a number that matched his business card. I Googled to see which signs were compatible with Scorpio. Had he claimed to be a cappuccino it would have worked, but definitely not a Capricorn.

I made a decision. There were no sparks. And I really was not interested in dating. Maybe with the right guy, but this guy was not close to being the right guy. I would rather be with my girlfriends or alone.

When I called him back, as I had agreed to do, he asked me out for the following evening to attend the fancy cocktail party given by an equally fancy white-shoe Philadelphia law firm. Why was he invited? Sorry, I had theater plans with friends. How about Saturday night? I would be out to dinner with a girlfriend. And Sunday, for the church recital? I’d have to give that one some thought. What about Monday, Tuesday, or Friday evening of next week? I was busy.

He asked me to please call him if I ever wanted to go to the movies. I could pick the flick. And finally, he reminded me that Scorpios were a perfect sign for him. I told him it was nice to have met him. I put the phone down, got out my yoga mat, and turned on Pretty Woman.