Nine moments of trying again, gently.
The texture-of-trying-again pack. Two years out from the breakup. Jan re-downloads the app. Writes a three-line bio. Has a first coffee with someone whose name we do not need to know. Walks twelve blocks afterward. Wears the cardigan to the second date and is told it suits her. The pack maps the specific liveliness of meeting someone new at twenty-nine — the small physical alertness, the slight floating, the I forgot to check my phone feeling.
Re-downloaded the app.
Last had it on my phone on a Tuesday two years ago, deleted it by Thursday. On the couch now, fourteen and forty at once — fourteen because the icon is the same icon, forty because I have reasons now. Let it install. Didn't, immediately, open it. Made tea. Came back. Opened it. The first thing it said: welcome back, Jan. It had been patient. I had nothing prepared. Closed the app. Tomorrow I'd have a face for it.
Wrote the bio.
First draft: four paragraphs. Third draft: four words. Final: three lines. Writer-shaped. low energy, high attention. tell me about your weird ritual. Chose three photos: a face one (mine, not glamorous, taken by Ana outside the pizza place on Nassau). A close-up of dirty hands at the pottery sink, slightly cropped. A photo Mim took of the floor when she stepped on my phone — accidentally artistic, slightly upside-down. Pressed save profile. The profile went live. Available, for the first time in two years, in the small bureaucratic sense.
Twelve messages over two days.
He spelled correctly. Used a comma where a comma was supposed to be. Asked, in message four, about my pottery class — he had read the bio. Offered two coffee options and let me pick. Had not once sent the word babe. Laughed twice at things he wrote — actual laughed, second time had to put the phone down for a second. Didn't know by Saturday if the messages were a thing or just messages. Knew I'd been more awake at 9 PM Thursday than most Thursdays.
Met at 11 AM.
Arrived four minutes early. He was three minutes late, which is statistically fine. Taller than the photos. I was, apparently, also taller than expected. We laughed about the gap. Ninety-one minutes. I knocked over my flat white at minute twelve. He handed me a napkin without making a big deal. Talked about his sister, my mother, pottery, the dumpling shop, a book we both read in college. I talked slightly too fast. He didn't seem to mind. Didn't ask once what I did for work. The not-asking was a real generosity. Hadn't, in ninety-one minutes, been bored. That was the data.
Walked home after.
Twelve blocks. Hadn't planned to walk. My phone sat in the tote with the scarf and the lip balm. Not in my hand. Had not looked at it since 10:53 AM. The walk was bright. Peach-tinted. Hadn't done that, after a coffee with anyone, in two years.
Said the cardigan suited me.
In passing, on the way to ordering — "the cardigan suits you," then asked what I wanted in the same breath. A year ago I would have said "oh this old thing." Tonight I said "thanks." Added: "my brother sent it." He said "good taste." Ordered a bottle. There for two hours. I dropped a piece of bread and tried to kick it under the table. He definitely saw. Walked me to the corner. Said "I'd like to do this again." I said "I would too," and stepped backward off the curb by accident. Went home. Let the compliment stay landed, despite the curb.
Three drafts before sleep.
First: "thank you for tonight — that was lovely." Too formal. Second: "that was the best date i've been on in 2 years." Too much. Third: a meme. No. Sat with it for nineteen minutes. Sent the fourth: "good night." Two words. He sent back "good night." Less interesting and more true. The thing I almost said is often the thing I shouldn't have. Turned off the lamp. Slept well, which was the most surprising thing.
Priya said "is this a thing." Knew she would.
Been ready nine days. I said "I don't know." Said: "I'm letting it not know." She stared at me for a beat. Said "good answer." I said "thank you." We had two more dumplings each. She asked about the pottery. I asked about her sister. The thing is, at the moment, not knowing.
Sunday at four.
Alone. Had been alone the Sundays before. This alone is lighter — chosen, by various small omissions over the week. Didn't miss anyone particular. Didn't want anyone particular here at the counter. The teapot on. The cardigan on. The alone was its own company. There would be other Sundays when I'd want someone. This Sunday, the tea was enough. The tea has always been enough.