Can you miss someone you barely know? Two weeks ago, on a steamy summer night—the type in which the air smells faintly of sour milk and the sunshine bakes the sidewalk—I met a man we’ll call M for a drink at Clandestino, my favorite neighborhood spot. We’d matched on Tinder earlier that week, had skipped the small talk (a refreshing change, if I’m being honest) and made a date for Friday evening. We’d originally agreed upon happy hour, but when I mentioned I had a dishwasher install happening the same day, he suggested we meet a bit later. “Dishwasher installation doesn’t sound too punctual,” he said. And I thought to myself, was it possible that I’d just met a truly normal, responsible adult male on an app?
As I approached the bar, my eyes scammed the outdoor tables, and alighted on a handsome man—dark hair, eyes that glittered like black marbles, linen shirt, relaxed, devil may care stance—seated alone. My first thought was that he was out of my league. Spotting me, his face broke into a smile, his eyes crinkling into slivers in the evening sun. He lifted his hand in a wave, he stood to greet me, offering a kiss on the cheek. We ordered a drink—wine for me, beer for him—and he told me he was a photographer, a former New Yorker who was here for a few weeks from Bogota, where he now lives. He’d been teaching a workshop, but that was done now; he planned to spend the next two weeks fixing up his Williamsburg apartment to sublet.
One drink turned to two, we traded wine and beer for two aperol spritzes, bright orange like the sunset that crackled and burned behind us. I marveled at how easy the conversation felt, how surprising it was that after so many app dates that had felt—in one way or another—like pulling teeth, this one felt as relaxed and natural as could be. Draining our drinks, he asked if I wanted to get dinner. We crammed into a back corner table at Kiki’s, the datiest of date spots, all dark woods and Edison bulb lighting. Squint, and you’re not on a grungy corner of the lower east side but an old Greek taverna. We split an order of horiatiki, a whole fish. When I told him I was freaked out by the one eye staring up at me, he turned the plate around.
10pm. We spilled out onto the sidewalk, crowded with Friday night revelers. He pulled me into a kiss, intentions clear, then asked if we should get dessert. I had ice cream in the freezer, did he want to walk me home?
You know the rest. By midnight, I was kissing him goodnight at my door, hoping, wishing, thinking I might just be so lucky as to see him again. It was July 4th weekend; I’d planned to go home but was stuck on a new business pitch that had prevented me from traveling. I had BBQ plans, dinner plans, he had the same.
Saturday evening, I found myself across the bridge in Williamsburg, having biked across from dinner.
“Guess who snagged an ebike across the bridge tonight?” I texted. “Felt like flying.”
He responded soon after, asking what I was doing in the hood, whether I wanted to come over. He was on his roof with a few friends. I waffled, debated, procrastinated by walking my friend Danny 10 blocks out of the way to the L train and back. Would he think it was weird, showing up to his apartment like that? Would his friends look at me funny, write me off as weird or desperate? I stood outside a wine store on Bedford for a good ten minutes arguing with myself, then walked in and purchased a cold bottle of earthy orange wine.
Outside his building, I took a series of deep breaths. I texted my friend Hannah for moral support. I reminded myself that I could always turn around and walk back out the door, that I never had to see these people again. I buzzed.
When I got off the elevator, he was standing at his door with that crinkly eyed smile.
“Hi,” he said, grinning.
“Hi,” I replied. “I brought wine.”
His friends were nice, normal; complimentary and gushing about their good friend M. He was an amazing photographer, had I seen his photos? His knowledge of history was encyclopedic, did I know that? He was a great tour guide, should I ever find myself in Bogota.
Though I didn’t stay that night, I stayed late, biking back over the bridge in the moonlight, lips bee stung and vibrating. The next night, following an afternoon barbecue with my friends, I opted out early and hopped the L to Williamsburg for BBQ #2 at M’s (he’d texted around dinner time asking how BBQ#1 was going; implying that BBQ #2 would be infinitely better). I arrived to a bigger group, a real holiday shindig; shrimp and steak on the grill, joints passed around the table, stories of childhood celebrity crushes (mine: Devon Sawa) and camps at Burning Man. M kept his hands or his eyes on me the entire night, and I told myself this was proof I could do it: show up at a party where I knew just one person and fit in just fine.
By midnight, everyone was gone. We stood in the kitchen, hand washing giant salad bowls and tiny plates, wine glasses with sediment slushing in the bottom. He poured me a mug of water, and brought it into the bedroom.
“Here,” he said, setting it down on the nightstand. “I’ll put it on your side.”
So simple, so kind.
“I know it’s been a long two days of hosting,” I said. “I get it if you want to get some sleep on your own.”
He shook his head.
“I want to sleep with you.”
A tiny piece of my hardened heart melted, it was a miracle, I felt, that I didn’t fully turn to liquid.
Throughout the night and into the wee hours of the morning, I alternated between restless sleep and a strange fugue state in which I floated up and out of my body and commanded myself to be present. To enjoy it, this brief moment, suspended in time, for whatever it was—though I knew what it could not be.
In the morning, he made me coffee sweetened with honey; he had no milk. Though I said I wasn’t hungry, he sliced up a melon, “just in case.” I’d told him the night before cantaloupe was my favorite.
Cut to Wednesday evening. My pitch completed, he arrived at my door with a bottle of wine, a chilled white that perfectly complimented the pasta dinner I’d planned for us: freshly made pesto + lightly sautéed shrimp. As we sat at my table, I allowed myself a brief moment of pretending this was my life: a partner who I cooked dinner for, a partner who knew that the shrimp would be made better by a brief sizzle in the wine before serving. A partner who kept his hand on my thigh, kept his toes tucked atop mine. A partner who listened when I spoke, who smiled when I said something funny, who showed up when he said he would.
Nestled in the sheets, breathless and turned with our toes facing the headboard, he turned his head to mine and said quietly, “I like you, Sarah.” Again, my mind commanded me to be present. It is rare that someone says this to me, let alone seems to mean it. So rare that I struggle to take it in, to let the compliment settle first in my mind and then in my heart. So rare that I struggle to come up with an adequate reply.
Before he goes, he offers to help me clean up. He stands behind me at the kitchen sink, encircling his arms around my waist. In my mind, I silently count backwards from the day I know he goes back home. We’ve just over a week left.
“Will I see you again before you go?” I ask. I bite my lip, hope it hasn’t come out needy, obvious.
“If you want to,” he replies, not unkindly.
“Of course I want to.”
We make plans for a beach day on Sunday, and I try not to spend the next 24 hours agonizing over whether I’ve made it clear that I do, indeed want to. That I very much want to. I’ve been told in the past that my lack of confidence in myself and my worthiness leads me to quietly self-sabotage such situations; my friends sometimes tell me I’ve been hit on when I think someone’s just being nice. I worry that in my attempt to protect myself, to not come on too strong, I’ve inadvertently indicated that I’m not interested. I very much am.
On Saturday, I text to ask what time I should pick him up for the beach, and—throwing caution to the wind—tell him I’m excited to spend the day with him.
He hearts the message, and replies simply: Me too.
We agree on 10am pickup, and I ask if he’ll grab us coffees for the drive out to Riis.
"Of course,” he says. “Milk and sugar, right?” He remembers. Another quiet, simple sign that he was listening when I was speaking. It’s a low bar, it’s an important one.
I spend the evening walking on air.
In the morning, I fly over the Williamsburg Bridge. There’s nary a car in sight, nary a cloud in the sky. Our drive towards the ocean is brief and blessedly traffic-free. We accidentally sip one another’s coffees, and decide to just share the both of them, sipping from the same straws. As we pull off the Belt Parkway, I roll down the windows, let the warm, salty air rush in. Again, I rise out of my body and stare down at the two of us from above. I’ve one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the dashboard. His hand covers mine. We look calm, light, happy.
Arriving at the beach, we struggle to locate his friends on the vast expanse of sand. We stroll back and forth on the boardwalk, looking for a blue tent in a sea of blue tents. There’s no cell phone service, no way to drop a pin. He’s carrying both his bag and mine; he insists, even though mine is heavy with frozen water bottles. The sand is already hot to the touch, like walking on coals. I can tell he feels badly that we cannot find them, that we’re walking aimlessly. I tell him it’s fine, I do not say that I would happily spend all day walking back and forth on hot sand if we were in conversation, together.
Finally, we spot the right blue tent, and plop down our things. We decide to go in the water immediately, leaving his friends behind. He dives in right away; brave, unafraid. I coax myself in slowly, afraid of the current, of the towering waves. He’s far away by the time I muster up the courage to dunk my head.
“You look so beautiful,” he says.
“What?!” I cannot hear him over the crashing of the waves.
“I said you look so beautiful! You’re all golden in the sunlight.”
In that moment, I feel it. I am beautiful, I am golden in the sunlight. Not for the first time and not for the last, I wish desperately that I could freeze this moment in time, capture it, a moving portrait I can climb in and out of when I need to be reminded of this tiny tinge of happiness. And yet, I take no photos of our time together. After all, what kind of person takes photos of a photographer? I take a single photo at the beach, of our towels side by side.
His friends leave early, and he goes to get us lunch. He’s gone for so long that I begin to worry. Has he gotten lost, unable to find the blue tent again? Has he been distracted, swallowed up by the crowd? Just as I reach to check my phone, I see him strolling towards me, two hot dogs and two orders of fries in hand. I’ve asked for a lemonade; in lieu of finding the real thing, he’s brought me a lemon ginger seltzer. We sit and eat our matching hot dogs, zig-zagged with both ketchup and mustard; we nearly polish off the fries. We lay back, sweaty and sated. I rest my head on his chest, I nestle into his side. I know I’m burning; I do not care.
On the way home, there’s lots of traffic. It’s a summer Sunday in Brooklyn, and I’m stressed, nervous that I’ll get rear-ended yet again. When I accidentally get into the left turn lane and need to go straight, I panic. Rather than get annoyed by my annoyance, he places his hand on my thigh, and tells me it’s okay, the person behind us will let me back in (and they do), then turns on Al Green’s Love and Happiness and taps his fingers softly on my leg to the beat of the music. I feel calmed by his calmness, and wish I could bottle this feeling, sip it whenever stress arises.
Arriving back in Brooklyn, we attempt to find a parking spot. Ice cream and dinner are required, showers are wanted. After circling the block for 20 minutes, we give up. I drop him off, and head back to Manhattan; he promises to shower and head to mine in an hour or so. That night, we eat take out sushi side by side on my sofa. We watch the terrible Spanish soap opera I’ve been plowing through on Netflix. We turn it off to fall into bed. We make plans for one final date night, we settle on Tuesday. I feel it again, the ticking clock. We’ve got just a few more days. I don’t want him to leave just yet, I’m scared to tell him I don’t want him to leave just yet.
On Tuesday night, storm clouds threaten to burst as I bike over the bridge. I arrive at his door a bit earlier than expected, having attempted to beat the storm. The air is thick enough to slice with a knife, and my silky dress feels like its stuck to my skin. He’s upstairs, building an IKEA bed; it’s just a few minutes past 7pm, and the reservation he’s made for us at a little Sardinian spot isn’t ‘til 7:30. He pulls a chair into the room for me and gestures, here, sit. I watch as he expertly maneuvers tiny screws into the steel frame, building a bed from scratch whilst barely glancing at the instructions. He’s proud of all the progress he’s made prepping the apartment for renters; he shows me the curtains he’s hung, the freshly painted doors, the newly made beds. Frame assembled, he tells me to hang tight on the roof and watch the sunset while he changes for dinner. I lean over the edge and watch the world go by, tiny dots of dogs and humans in windows and on street corners, a million little moments being lived while I wait for mine.
At dinner, we’re seated in yet another quiet corner. We split a bottle of vermentino and dip crusty bread in olive oil. Under the table, he holds my ankles in between his; on top of the table, he eats with one hand and holds mine with the other. In a rare moment of vulnerability, he tells me he’s a little bit sad to be going home. In the statement, I hear the unsaid part: he’s sad to be leaving me. 1.5 glasses of wine in, I tell him I, too, am sad. I wish he wasn’t going. We split two bowls of pasta, finish the bottle, and stroll tipsily to a gelato shop, and then to the waterfront. We stand intertwined, watching the ferries and party boats sail by. We remark on the beauty of Manhattan as seen from the other side, marveling at how the bridges glitter in front of us.
We go home, and I nearly fall asleep in his arms, wrestling myself awake because tomorrow is a work day, and I know I’ll regret an early morning walk home in last night’s dress. We kiss goodbye briefly, inconsequentially, and as I bike the bridge (bless the universe for giving me an ebike every time I need it, but especially late at night), I tear up a bit thinking that this was it—and that “it” didn’t feel like much of a goodbye at all.
I know he plans to spend his last day finishing up all the work in his apartment, that he’ll be running around saying goodbye to folks, picking up any last minute supplies. I want more closure, but I don’t want to bother him. Midday, I cave, and offer my organizational help. I mean it (organizing is one of my gifts), but I also want to see him once more before he goes. At first, he balks. He’s got lots to do, he’d love the help but feels guilty taking me up on the offer. I insist, and after dinner, I arrive at his apartment prepared to be put to work. We haul giveaway boxes to the corner and giant contractor-sized trash bags to the street. He allows me to re-organize his bookcase, then style it with a box of mementos, each of which lead to stories. Here, a popular dice game, there, a photo of he and his parents in his high school days. He pours us each a glass of beer, and I sit on the floor, pulling stacked books out into piles, then reordering them by height while he goes through his last big project: a hallway closet that hasn’t been cleaned out for years. I put away extra sets of linen, I fill a plastic bin with nails and screws, switch plates and wrenches.
About an hour in, he yells for me to come upstairs. He wants me to see the sunset. The sky is streaked in pinks and purples, and I think about that first evening, of our aperol spritzes, red orange like the evening sky. It feels like I’ve lived a short film in 10 days, like I’ve been cast as a the lead in a rom-com that somehow is my life. I know he’s leaving in the morning, and I hate it.
A little before 11, we sit side by side on the couch, mugs of steaming Sleepytime tea in hand. He’s eating a late dinner of yogurt and the homemade granola I brought him earlier in the week. He’s finished nearly everything, just a few more projects to go and he can call it a (late) night. We tote one last load of trash to the street, and stand for a few minutes, kissing next to a giant pile of garbage bags. This must be a metaphor for something, but what, I do not know. My love life is a steaming pile of garbage, maybe? I can have nice things, but only for a little bit, perhaps? Whatever it is, I try not to think too hard about it.
Not for the first time, he says, “Maybe you can come to Bogota.” I nod, and wonder how real that invite actually is. We say our goodbyes, and again, the universe grants me an ebike, all the better to conquer the bridge with teary eyes and blurred vision. When I get home, I text him to thank him for a wonderful two weeks. I tell him I feel lucky to have met him.
By the time he replies, I’m long asleep. He feels the same, he says. It’s been a pleasure.
~
It’s been less than 48 hours, and I’ve not heard a peep. I don’t know if he made it home safely, if he’s back in Bogota or still on US soil. Since Wednesday evening, I’ve been coaching myself. Trying to just focus on the positive (I had a good—no, great two weeks with a person who made me feel seen and pretty, wanted and respected) whilst not letting the negative (how unfair that I had this brief glimpse of what could be, only for it to be impermanent, imprinted on me by an individual I may very well never hear from again) pull me under. I arrived at my (well-timed, much-needed) therapy session yesterday in need of a good cry, and a good cry I had.
I feel like I’ve bitten into an unripe berry, like a walking, talking, human sour patch kid: first they’re bitter, then they’re sweet. I had a taste of something wonderful, I didn’t get to keep it. I was shown that I was worthy of something at once special and normal, and it was taken away. I received proof that I too can be wanted in this way, but only for a minute.
It feels incredibly unfair. I’ve long felt that there was something truly, deeply wrong with me. Something hidden in my core, something that turns all the men I meet away from me, prevents them from pursuing anything real. Like I give off a stench that only they can smell. The last two weeks made me feel like maybe, just maybe, that belief—once I’ve held for as long as I can remember—was untrue. That maybe I would get to have what so many others make look easy, even if I was getting it later in life.
To have it dangled in front of me so deliciously and then torn away hurts. I don’t feel fully gutted—I took care not to let myself fall that hard—but I do feel sad. Really, truly sad.
Sometimes, life puts in our path experiences that are meant to teach us things. I could rattle off a list of what this one was meant to teach me—and maybe someday, I could actually believe the list was true. But right now, all I feel is the unfairness of it, the bittersweetness of the forbidden fruit.
If this were a rom-com instead of real life, the ending would be different. Simpler, kinder, happier. But real life is much crueler than that. And so for now, I’ll sit in my sadness. I’ll eat ice cream cones for dinner and drink margaritas long before 5pm. And I’ll remember that I’ve been through worse than this, and I’ve always come out the other side.
Love this and can relate to the whirlwind of finally experiencing “it” and then losing (in the absence of a more appropriate word) it so quickly. I hope this isn’t the end for you and M, but for now, I hope this reignites your faith in great guys and amazing chemistry, and that you are deserving. You are worthy.
Thank you for reminding me that I am, too.
Beautifully written. Beautifully lived. You gave yourself a wonderful gift ; cherish it. There will be others. One will be forever.