Luciana, my aesthetician, is administering my facial. I come to see her in this upscale New York city dermatologist’s office about every three months or when I just need a pick me up. As she is stroking my skin with a warm creamy make-up remover, we are sharing our usual catch up questions about kids, work, exercise and then the inevitable question about whether I am seeing anyone.

“No, I haven’t met anyone yet and I wish I could find a good guy. I don’t know where he is but my eyes are open.” I cringe a little inside under her caressing fingertips. I hate reporting the same old no-boy news.

“You know,” she says, ”there is a new doctor here who is originally from Greece and he is a good man, like you just know he is so decent and the way he treats everyone here with respect. He a very good man, from good family and he is divorced.”

I listen as the gentle steam mist glides over me. I can feel Luciana devising a plan.

“You can get an eye consult,” she says.

I have been complaining over the past year to Luciana about one eyelid kind of starting to droop and how I would like to explore some cosmetic options aside from keeping my hair sloped over my brow covering the eye corner. I’m feeling a little squeamish thinking that I cried about a sick relative a lot last night which is the reason I decided to get the facial in the first place, to try and relax and how no amount of pampering could decrease the puffiness of tears and lack of sleep. Now Luciana is suggesting a romantic rendezvous under dreaded dermatological lighting, this, while she is lathering gooey penetrating cream undoubtedly grazing strands of my best strategically placed highlights.

Yet I don’t want to discourage Luciana’s efforts to look out for me on the love horizon. In that instant she says, “Steam for five minutes, I’m going to check on Dr. Kouzitakis’s schedule.” Her shoes click across the sleek floor. As she opens and closes the sliding door, she winks. Well, I can’t see the wink, my eyes are closed under damp cotton but somehow I get the winked at feeling.

Five minutes later, Luciana returns and says, “He is with someone but when you’re done, he’s gonna come.” The poofy eye thing worries me but I don’t want a shallow person anyway. I’m artistic, what are the chances I’d go for a dermatologist? Skin deep and all that. Though I am working on being less introspective. In any case, the wheels have been set in motion.

When the facial is done, I take off the little cloth shower cap thingie and yup, there are some strands matted down just as I suspected but I can probably remedy that with a comb. Like twenty strong, quick strokes. Luciana says that Dr. Kouzitakis will be out shortly and maybe I’d like to go freshen up and put some lipstick on. I look way tired and go off to the ladies room and realize I forgot my under eye cream. I fix up the best I can though I am a little red and blotchy.

Back in the waiting room, Luciana hands me the doctor’s bio so I can read up on his surgical prowess. His picture is there. A small boxed photo like the internet dating format only without the computer. Why can’t I just live in Alaska where the ratio of men to women is 8:1. His photo looks uptight and not too appealing but not everyone takes a good picture. I keep looking; I’m just not feeling it and he is still tied up with another patient. I could skip out but it might discourage Luciana’s future efforts and “you never know” so I wait.

I return to the consultation room and the unforgiving lights glare and I see Dr. K arriving. He is a very small man. Tiny. Like the size of my thumb tiny. Okay, it’s only a consult and I am trying to be open romantically and medically. He looks intensely into my eyes. Of course this is an eye consult but there is intensity and focus. Focus is good. Luciana says to the doctor, “She’s pretty isn’t she?”

He agrees, “Yes, she is.”

“She looks good,” Luiciana says encouragingly and goes off to her next appointment. “I see you later.”

I look directly into Dr. K’s eyes and ask where in Greece his family is from. As he runs his fingers down my jaw line and gently fidgets with my brow weighing my potential for a lift, he says he is actually from Turkey.

“Oh, I love Turkey,” I say honestly as he is checking my under eyes for elasticity, putting skin between his thumb and pointer finger and watching how long it takes to snap back (if snap is the correct word). He mentions the town his family is from, some name with an S. He never breaks his gaze into my eyes even as he discusses sucking fat out, an incision here and another one there. I’m feeling a little buzz, maybe from all the staring. Then he asks how old I am. On a first date, sort of, damn. I tell him my age and he says I look good and to think about what and whether I would want to do something now.

On my way out, I thank Luciana for watching out for me and tell her that I can’t tell anything because it’s strictly professional.

“Of course,” she says. “When you do the surgery, you’ll have more time together.”

I smile at her optimism and then think of being all bandaged, trying to flirt in multiple shades of black and blue. It’s a lot to go through to find someone to gaze into your eyes.