We had gone to dinner shortly before I left for the summer, but it had
been so long ago, I couldn’t remember anything bad about the date. So
when she asked if I was interested in going out again, I figured why not
give it another go?
Well, it wasn’t exactly an ask. The text read, “When are you taking me
out again? I’m free on Friday.” But same thing, I suppose.
“I create content,” she answers without missing a beat. “Influencer-type
stuff. Mostly fashion and lifestyle.”
“Very cool. So you work for yourself. Do you like it?”
She shrugs before polishing off her glass of chardonnay and waving it in
the air to silently ask our server for another one, lifted brow and expectant
stare included.
Don’t like that, I think to myself.
Maybe she doesn’t realize it’s rude, I try to justify.
“I like the perks of it,” she continues. “I make my own schedule. I’m
given free products. That kind of thing.”
I almost expect her to ask what I do for work, but she knew before we
ever went on our first date.
“Do you have any pets?” I ask.
“No. Too much responsibility.”
“Are you close with your family?”
“Not particularly.”
Are you close with your family, Rio? Why yes, I am. I just got back from
three months in Boston, spending quality time with my ma during the off-
season. Thank you so much for asking.
Her chardonnay is set on the table before our server clears our now
empty plates and I’m that much closer to this being over.
I scold myself for feeling that way.
For always feeling that way.
I can’t remember the last time I even made it to a second date, so I should
focus on that small victory I suppose. But this is what tends to happen. I’m
eager to meet someone, desperate, you could say. We go on a first date, I
don’t feel that spark, and that’s where the connection dies.
Try harder.
“What do you do for fun?” I continue.
“I’m almost always out with my friends. I get invited to a lot of events,
so that keeps me busy. I enjoy working out. I like trying new restaurants—”
