Romancing a Hurricane

It's like this. The weekend before the hurricane, I watched friends and colleagues scramble in preparation. I don't mean that they were stocking up on water or batteries or candles (though some of them were responsible while others regretted not taking the prep more seriously), but rather they were scrolling through their little black book.
Ok, ok. Let's get serious. No-one I know actually carries around a literal black book. Why would they? The magic i-Phone allows one to enter a three line name (first, last, place I initially encountered the person or other defining trait, such as “Puerto Rican” or “chef”). I am pretty sure if you were to scroll through your contacts you might come across some random names that may take a minute or two to become familiar. Even when you are exceptionally descriptive (“skinny cyclist Art Bar Halloween”), it doesn't always register right away. This is New York, we encounter hundreds of people each week and it isn't easy keeping track.
Anyway. I digress. The thing is, many of my female friends found themselves anticipating the blackout as a potential romantic setting, and less of a burden or something to be feared. This is unsurprising, since movies and books alike romanticize blackness illuminated by faint candlelight, two bodies forced in closer to create warmth in the cold. And suddenly people were not required to work, or physically could not make it in to work, or found that their busy week now had gaps just waiting to be filled.