Boy 15, you are a happy accident.
Oh, brave new world lol.
You started texting me before I went out of town for my gig–see Boy 13 for pre-gig shenanigans and Boy 14 for shenanigans en-media-gig… To clarify I have not been seeking shenanigans. Just focused on work. I deleted Hinge after Boy 13 ’cause I felt I wasn’t ready to inflict myself upon men any longer, and Boy 14 was a strange foray…
You’re a full time comedian and a bit older than me. I google your material, and I think your work is genuinely funny and lovely.
We start riffing… rapport is quickly built. I don’t even remember about what! I immediately called you out on the fact that your profile was dripping with irony. You appreciated it and proceeded to ask me what I was passionate about.
So, come to think of it, is your dating profile a Rorschach test?
Before I answered, I prefaced: well, this question tends to be a deeply depressing exercise ’cause most people aren’t passionate about what they do?
You agreed.
So we promptly got into our passions… oat milk mochas (yours), high EQ (mine), milk chocolate (mine), warm blankets (yours), comporting oneself at unpleasant parties (mine)… etc.
I dropped my number pretty quickly because some part of me knew I was about to delete the app. You texted me right away… we riffed further on holiday songs and coffee shops and parents. It was nice.
The day before I left, you wrote:
“You’re too fun to text. Maybe we shouldn’t meet?”
And I replied:
“Careful what you wish for. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
And then I warned you that the last time I had a long digital overture to a first date it was… awful. See Boy 9, literally dubbed Troll. This post doesn’t adequately convey what a troll Boy 9 was, but please note the asterisk… Boy 9 explicitly lied to me about a dealbreaker, and let’s just say our physical interactions were terrifyingly bad. But Boy 15, you were nonplussed: “I look forward to texting you for a ridiculously long time before being disappointed.”
It’s a deal.
We didn’t text much at first. Every few days or so. We were both seeing a variety of movies over the holiday season, so we exchanged opinions.
I’m not into film criticism, but I do tend to have strong opinions about movies, so… it was lovely to disagree. You were sure that no one could have anything but positive reviews for Knives Out. Well… Knives Out is a perfectly ordinary murder mystery that’s decently executed. I slept through all the little introductory testimonials, woke up for the pivotal scene (don’t worry–no spoilers) and then skipped along with the rest. It’s out of genre for me. I don’t like premises that thrive on misdirection. We talked about why I think Call Me By Your Name is actually divine (it’s at the center of a feeling) while Ladybird is middling (it’s commenting on a feeling).
You asked me so many questions… which I find refreshing in all men, I explained to you. ‘Cause most first dates I just end up interviewing an average dude about his average life for 60 minutes. You sometimes evaded reciprocal questions, and I mentioned that I’m noticing that. You said I’ve pinpointed your first date strengths and weaknesses already.
Some questions just unharnessed stereotypes…
Do you like vinyl? Infinite Jest? Moleskine notebooks?
Do I play the ukulele? Do I like Jane Austen? Little Women?
Neither of us seem to fall into any strict types though I am learning to play ukulele, and you did buy a record player. We end up talking more about what makes good art and comedy and gigs and chocolate. You tell me you’ve googled me and that, unfortunately, you don’t think you’d hate my physical appearance.
On New Year’s Eve, you texted saying someone should kiss me. It was cute.
At a certain point I think both of us just decided that this was “just right.”
We’re both busy and out of town and clearly somewhat single for the season, and it’s nice to have a mirage to interact with, I guess, especially if it can communicate decently and has a sense of humor? Texting is just writing dialogue after all. Which we both do…
The day I’ll be back in town approaches, and you remember it. I’m amazed that you remember something I said… I guess that’s all you need to know about my current expectations.
We decide to meet. I caution you though… this quantum state is so fabulous. Why ruin a good thing? We joke along, but we also proceed to predict psychological profiles of each other with love languages and Meyers-Briggs and every possible personality test under the sun. So we’re basically kind of taking that New York Times 36 Questions To Fall In Love Quiz without explicitly taking it?
You suggest places in my neighborhood, and we pick one. We both cool off on the texting in the 36 hours or so before our actual meeting. It’s like we both know something is about to detonate, but we’re not sure what.
Let’s all calm down and make sure we push the right button.
This is quite a lengthy preamble to the actual date, but I think it’s relevant and reflects the… lengthy preamble to the actual date. The longest yet in fact.
I catch up with a friend near our chosen location. She’s proud of me for trying again. I’m not sure what I am.
I walk in. You’re nowhere to be seen. I text you: “I’m here? I think?”
I hear a voice behind me: “Well, I guess it’s ruined.”
Ah, a man referencing a destroyed quantum state of attraction? Must be for me.
I can barely see you ’cause it’s a bit crowded, but instinct kicks in: “Of course it is,” I respond. And then then someone walks up. Do we want to eat or just drink? You had mentioned dinner when you suggested the place, and you say you’d eat.
We walk to the table. We both sit down. They offer to take our jackets. You give them yours, and I hang mine on my chair. Not sure why.
I haven’t been able to get a proper look at you, still.
First thing out of your mouth: “Well, I think you’re totally hot and beautiful.”
“Oh. Ah? Ah.”
I start laughing.
I can feel the subtext of this proclamation: hey, meeting you in-person hasn’t ruined this for me, and I want to make that as clear as possible (especially after I made that joke).
I find words: “Uh, no one has ever said that to me on a first date? Let alone within the first two minutes?”
“I went on a date with a woman who said I was very laid-back, so I thought I would tell you.”
“Oh, ok! I find you attractive, too.”
And… I do. I do, in fact, find you attractive. And I like your voice. A lot. I don’t have one type–I just know it when I see it and when I hear it and when I feel it. We somehow end up talking at length about one of my sisters. You start discussing your novel a bit. We talk about airlines and the DSM-5.
I drink my orange wine, and you give me a piece of your flatbread to try… you say maybe I won’t taste the anchovies. I taste them, and they’re foul. “Well,” I say as I chew and grimace. You laugh. “I promise I don’t taste like that,” you say. Oh, really?
And then you comment that I’m “secure.” I almost fall over. Me? Secure? “Yes,” you insist, “you know what you’re feeling when you feel it, and you articulate it. Whatever it is.” I’m still in shock. You affirm: “I think you are a very secure communicator.” It’s charming.
You pick up the check even though I insist we can split it–you say I can pay next time. You get your jacket. I get mine.
I say I’m not far, and you say “Oh, wow, I got you within walking distance.”
“Um, it sounds like you’re going to kill me.”
You walk me. You touch my arm at one point in what is a very intentional gesture as we discuss Judaism and pets.
It’s been three hours at this point. And then when I say, “Well, this is me,” you take a step towards me. It’s such a solid step. It’s so clear. You know I’m only here for a short time, but that doesn’t seem to deter you.
Boy 15, you are the only boy I’ve ever kissed on a first date like that. Or rather… the only boy who kissed me like that. Or maybe we kissed each other? You definitely started it. It was cold, and you were brave. And you enfolded me.
I’m so close to you I can just hear you say: “You’re nice to kiss.”
I’m not gonna lie, reader. I think another hour passed out on that street easily, but I can’t be sure.
Finally, I say “Listen, I gotta go upstairs. I have a train in four hours.”
“Are you gonna text me?”
“What!? You’re the one who’s supposed to text me!”
“Why’s that?”
“The patriarchy!”
“Oh, well… you don’t seem like someone who obeys the patriarchy.”
“Oh god. I don’t know. I’m trying.”
“Well, I guess we’ll just have to text each other at the same time then.”
“I have to go! If I don’t go, I’ll never go!”
“Ok. I’m gonna stand here, then, and watch you go.”
“Ok.”
I run around the corner to my door. I’m barely able to sort out the keys.
Boy 15, I assume nothing.
Hear my affirmation, Boy 15. I’m explicitly designating you secondary to my healing process. I am seeking man-less peace. I am cultivating safety in solitude.
Thank goodness for constraints and methods of transportation. I slept for three hours and woke up an hour early, certain that I had miscalculated the time needed to get to the station and that I would miss my train and be fired. I ate one of those small Trader Joe’s milk chocolate bars. I sat there staring at the little approaching dot of the car I ordered for a good five minutes before realizing that if I left for the station now, I’d arrive two hours early. I cancelled the car and slept for one more hour.
I made it. I curled up across two empty seats, waiting for the ticket-taker, and suddenly felt furious with myself: what if I get sick? Why do I run myself ragged? Is it worth it? What’s worth it? But then, the fury faded, and I felt sleepy. And lucky. I drew the little accordion curtain across my Amtrak window and dozed off.
I’m very struck by you, Boy 15, but I will assume nothing.
Thank you.
UPDATE: The next day you text me around 3 PM. Just my name. I respond with yours. You say you had been trying to text at the same time, but ah well, I should know that you find me even more alluring in-person than in-quantum-state which is impressive.
All I can say is thank goodness I’m out of town… but you’re already asking about when I’m back, among other questions.
Brunette On Hinge 