years ago, i spent two perfect early autumn nights in new york with a brit we’ll call d. we’d matched on tinder while he was visiting the city for a week, and on a whim, i decided to throw my don’t go on dates with men who don’t live here rule out the window. i met him at a coffee shop, where he talked to me about the bar he co-owned with one of his oldest friends, and the volunteer work he did on the side. he was quiet and kind and respectful, and when he left my bed at 7am a few mornings later to go back to his hotel and pack before his flight, it was with the promise that we’d keep in touch when he arrived back in the uk.
for the next 4 months or so, we texted nearly every day. we talked about our jobs and our families, about what we’d done that day or that weekend or that night. in lieu of him actually being present in new york, i created an entire persona for him in my head, sketching out a person and filling him in with my hopes and dreams. this was years ago, when the apps were popular, but not nearly as popular as they are now, and i allowed myself to dream that perhaps one day he’d come back to the gritty streets of the lower east side and declare that this was it—he couldn’t live without me.
absurd, i know. i can see this, with the tiny bit of wisdom that comes with age.
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