Girl Rejects me because of my Bank

Just yesterday evening, I was doing some cable curls at the Equinox on 53rd when I saw her again. I looked in a mirror across the room and felt that this mild pump was doing some moderate wonders to my 140lbs frame. This senseless confidence conjured up, I approached her. 

“Hi, I don’t mean to bother you, but I’ve seen you here often and I just wanted to say I think you’re really…”— I froze for a second as a deluge of Instagram reels and Reddit threads of women talking about their experiences being cold approached flooded my mind. I suddenly didn’t feel it appropriate to call her pretty here, and I wanted to differentiate myself from any other guy approaching her and hype her up a little bit. So, I landed on—“strong...”

Luckily, she took it well, laughed, and thanked me. We exchanged names, and then I asked her:

“So, are you from the city?” in such an arrogant and blasé way that I stunned myself. My face dropped to a more sincere expression, but I doubt she noticed any of it transpire. 

”No, I wish. I’m from Philly.”

“Oh, nice city. Rough season though, huh?” I had no idea what sport I was referring to.

She laughed again and nodded sheepishly. I thought I was doing great. Not only because I had made her laugh, but because I had thus far succeeded in keeping my eyes from dropping down her white Alo top.

She asked me where I’m from. “Westchester,” I said, rather proudly and pointing my finger up, as if she could see the three-dimensional rendering of New York I was visualizing in my mind. 

I asked her what she does for work. Mostly because I wanted to tell her what I do for work.

“Oh, I’m in marketing. I’m a bit creative, so it’s fun!”

Perfect. A cunning smile formed across my face as I thought of my washed-up, freshly-divorced Director who asks me every day if I’m still single, and when I tell him yes, proceeds to tell me to just go for a marketing girl.

“And what about yo—“ she started. “I’m a banker,” I flaunted. It’s been three years and I’ve yet to close a deal.

“Woww,” she smiled. “My brother works at Goldman. Where do you work?” 

Fuck. 

“Oh, haha,” I chuckled (yes, I said “haha” out loud.) “I’m at a smaller bank, you probably don’t know it. We’re small, but we’re growing a lot. And, you know, that means a lot more responsibility as a junior.” I cut myself off before prattling about how all these analysts at bigger banks don’t get the same senior-level exposure, and that I, unlike them, am not just a cog in the system. I would have kept going had I not noticed my errant gaze falling down her top. She seemed, or at least pretended, not to notice.

“Hit me!” she says. “I was thinking of doing IB recruiting, I probably know it.” A big grin spanned across her face. 

“Oh, well I’m at KeyBanc,” I said slowly.

Her smile dropped and her forehead creased in pure disgust.

“Oh my God,” she started, placing her hand on her chest. “Wasn’t that place just listed F-Tier in the ‘2026 IB PRESTIGE TIER LIST [UNBIASED] on Wall Street Oasis?”

I didn’t even have time to respond before she walked away. 

To the sophomore who wrote that list, fuck you.