Girl 0: Letters To No One

The internet might be the perfect place to write love letters to nobody in particular.

No one is required. No one is accountable. No one is present. A thousand trees quietly falling on each other. A thousand tweets in a silent pile. A thousand swipes and scrolls. Truly, what did people do before they could type into an abyss? I suppose they journaled, but we still do that. Maybe that’s why they put little letters into bottles, and all those little jokes and confessions and accusations just floated out into the ocean.

I remember “getting internet.” I’m just barely old enough to remember a world without cell phones. Hours spent looping around the airport wondering when we’d find someone. It is probably unoriginal to comment on the fact that we used to just meet each other at appointed times in appointed places, but I still find it… amazing? And lateness was always earned and significant until it wasn’t.

I did love my little Nokia phone, blue and slightly shiny. When I started driving, I would lose it constantly in the space between the seat and the door of my father’s station-wagon. I’d search for it thoroughly even though most of my calls still came to my home phone. I played SNAKE sometimes.

I don’t know how I feel about my phone now. It’s harder to love, of course.

It’s a rose gold iPhone. Relatively new, but not fancy. It’s not the latest model. It does recognize my fingerprint though, so that feels intimate. My lock screen and home screen currently match: it’s a black and white shot of Dorothy encouraging the Cowardly Lion. Judy Garland… before the patriarchy.

Speaking of: a love letter to no one in particular.

Dear,

Dear.

I’m sitting across from a friend of mine right now, and we’re both typing away. She just looked up and told me she writes too much about people’s eyes. I write too much about people’s hands.

I’m obsessed with hands. Eyes, too, but not on the page or the screen. I think maybe the first thing I think about when I think about you are your hands.

I think about hands holding forks and knives.

I think about hands and the tender little way they hug phones.

I think about hands in banal romantic ways.

I guess hands are for shaking with strangers and grasping with lovers? And clapping. Writing. That makes sense to me. The first point of contact is the final physical point of translation and transmission. You touched me right where I’m trained to type. The point is I’d like you to trace my hair behind my ear. That’s very important to me and a very good use of hands.

Enough about hands.

I’d like to worry about you when you’re on a plane.

I’d like to argue with you at 10:15 PM and then sullenly apologize after midnight.

I’d like to misunderstand you over and over again.

I’d like to drink a bottle of wine together and fall over laughing when I show you an insane text from my mother.

I’d like to forget things at your apartment.

Anyone who dates is an optimist.

Apparently you need 4 hugs a day to survive, 8 to maintain and 12 to thrive. I’m trying to decide whether or not sex counts. I’m genuinely not sure if it does. I think I get exactly one hug a day now, and it’s scripted. So, I’ll close there: I’d like to hug you. And I hope you have at least one hug a day, too. It doesn’t have to be from me or from a sexual partner.

See you soon,

Girl 0

P.S. I can’t text you any of this ’cause I don’t have your number yet.

Boy 15: The Comedian

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.

Boy 14: The not-so-townie townie

Boy 14, I decided to try and adjust my location to my out-of-town gig and sample the local fare… so to speak.

You’re a (personal) chef. That seems cool. Though I am a picky eater, so… this might be awkward?

You text me all sorts of questions about my ancestry. Fun.

You also tell me that you wish you were back in New York, and you like that I’m not based here. Well… Moscow, Moscow, Moscow.

When you ask me what my favorite chocolate is, I say milk. You ask which chocolatiers. I’m a basic bitch I guess ’cause I say Lindt or Nutella? And you inform me that Lindt actually uses child labor. Abuse in West Africa. Damn it. I was very excited about going to the Lindt shop here. I probably still will and decide that my status as a pescaterian balances it out?

It doesn’t.

The next morning you send me a picture of your Antidote chocolate bar.

You might be too hip for me.

A few days later you text saying you have the night off and would I like to meet? I say sure! Though I don’t know much about this city, so would he like to wander around a Barnes & Nobles with me?

You text back: “We can do better than that.”

I mean, I don’t know. I think wandering around a Barnes & Nobles is kind of romantic? If someone offered that to me as a date… maybe wander around a Barnes & Noble for an hour before it closes and then walk to one of our places and drink a little wine and eat random crackers and chocolate (Lindt!?!?!?!) and then kiss? I guess that’s a second date. Not a first date. But you catch my drift.

You choose a bar that’s kind of loud. I beat you there, and when you arrive, we walk to a Food Hall instead because I’d recently lost my voice due to dryness and laziness (couldn’t be bothered to fill my humidifier).

You get a beer. I get a barely alcoholic kombucha.

You’re very sweet and smiley. Relaxed and calm. Which makes me feel neurotic and chatty. We sort of re-hash my ancestry and yours. You were a History major so you’re into it. You don’t particularly want to discuss your job it seems.

I’m surprised when you walk me a mile home.

I ask you why you moved here, and then it starts to come out.

Ahhhh… you fell in love with a woman who wanted to leave the city. Then the week you took this job and decided to leave the city with her, she ended it. So now you’re here. You’re going on vacation, and then you’re going to see your friends back in New York.

Slippery streets. Black snow. Ok. Ok. You’re going through it.

We get to my door, and you smile sleepily and give me a peck.

I’ve never had a guy give me a peck. It’s been the whole shebang or nothing at all. You also moved your hand towards my neck, and it was strange. It looked like a claw? I guess you could tell I thought that because you started giggling and ACTUALLY SAID: “My hand looks like a claw.“

It does, indeed!

You peck again.

“I’ll text you when I’m back?”

“Sure, sure,” I say.

I doubt you’ll text me. Tomorrow or when you’re back.

Thank you, Boy 14, for being your smiley self. For helping me get out and about in this city. For helping me realize I’m clearly morally compromised when it comes to questions of chocolate.

UPDATE: You did not text me the next morning. In fact, a significant amount of time has now passed since you would have returned from vacation, and you have not texted.

You are the first boy to not text me at all after our first date.

I appreciate you.