Ilower myself ontoPee-Pee’s sofa and it sinks slightly in the middle, like it knows my weight and my emotional baggage and has prepared accordingly. The sofa has always been an enabler.
Pee-Pee watches me over the rim of her glasses, cardigan today a soft blue that says supportive but not indulgent. I’ve learned to fear that particular shade.
“You look like someone who’s been rehearsing this conversation in the shower,” she says.
“I’ve been dating,” I reply, because if I don’t start there, I’ll end up talking about the weather or my cholesterol.
Her eyebrows lift, interested. “Alright. Tell me.”
“Her name’s Sophia,” I say. “We’ve been on two dates.”
She nods, waiting, and I immediately feel the urge to fill the silence.
“The first one went well,” I add. “Pub. Easy conversation. No disasters. I behaved like a functioning adult.”
“You sound relieved,” she observes.
“I was,” I admit. “That felt like a personal milestone. Historically, first dates and I have been… experimental.”
“And the second date?” she asks.
I shift on the sofa. It sighs again. Honestly, everyone in this room is against me.
“Also nice,” I say. “Which is where things get complicated.”
She waits, patient, and that means I have to keep going.
“It was dinner. Midweek. Her idea. Casual, but not so casual that you don’t spend a good ten minutes wondering if your shirt makes you look like someone who’s trying too hard or someone who’s given up entirely.”
“And once you were there?”
“Fine,” I say. “Really fine. She’s smart. Funny. Easy to talk to. Nothing awkward. Nothing uncomfortable.”
I pause, then add, “Nothing… memorable.”
Pee-Pee tilts her head slightly. “That sounds important.”
“It is,” I say. “Because I found myself thinking about what we’d talk about next time. On the third date. And that’s a bad sign, right?”
“In what way?”
“Not because we’d run out of topics,” I say. “More because I didn’t feel curious. We talked about work, travel, a podcast she loves.”
I take a deep breath and wonder if I sound pathetic to Pee-Pee’s ears.
“There was nodding. Encouraging noises. I was very polite. If politeness were chemistry, we’d have set the table on fire.”
She smiles at that but doesn’t interrupt.
“It felt,” I continue, “like a meeting that was going well. Agenda covered. Everyone pleasant. You leave thinking, yes, that was efficient, and then never think about it again.”
“And that bothered you.”
“Yes,” I say. “Because I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t buzzing. I wasn’t even distracted. I was just… present. Calm. Steady.”
“That doesn’t sound terrible,” she says.
“It does on a date,” I reply. “Calm is supposed to come later. After excitement. After stupidity. This felt like skipping straight to the bit where you’re deciding who’s buying dishwasher tablets.”
