Brief Encounter
It was fun while it lasted.
It’s their second date.
What came before was a lot of texting and a first outing that was enjoyable enough to merit another. In his eyes, this one is a vast improvement. Not that it’s better, per se, but trust and comfort are slowly forming between them. He notes her lipstick, well-manicured nails, and a subtle spritz of perfume, the same one she wore last time. When they parted ways with a friendly hug, he could still smell it on his shirt several hours later – a lovely reminder of the little rewards that can come your way when you step out of your comfort zone and break your routine. With that in mind, a second date seemed like a no-brainer.
It happens exactly a week later and spans multiple locations, many of them the quaint little shops that pepper Mission Drive in South Pasadena. As the February air grows crisp and the sun makes its lazy exit, they enjoy a dinner of poke bowls and follow that up with a drink at a crowded but mellow pub.
As things are still relatively new, much of the conversation is of the getting-to-know-you variety, which is well and good. She’s not sending off any red flags, and as far as he can tell, neither is he. He notes the constant references to her mother, which he also deems okay. She lives at home, and it’s obvious she’s comfortable there. Comfort is something he can no longer claim about his living situation, which has grown tense and disagreeable. The less time spent at home, the better.
But the conversation goes beyond the rote and obligatory. Somehow, Hooters is folded into their tete-a-tete, prompting her to give a surprisingly detailed explanation of why the waitresses have to wear pantyhose. As it turns out, it’s not to indulge a latent fetish of the thirsty Boomers still barely keeping the chain in business. If anything, the pantyhose serve as protection from them. He decides that makes a lot of sense while also being pleased with the conversation’s quirky detour. With the streets of South Pas bustling, cheerful, and well-lit, he begins to feel like he’s in a Nora Ephron movie. Not necessarily one of his go-to’s, but he’s happy to take it in just the same.
A nearby gallery is premiering a vampire-themed art show, and as they’ve both expressed a fondness for that particular species of undead creature, they decide to check it out. Upon arriving, they learn it’s a vampire-themed ball with a twenty-eight-dollar admission fee. They contemplate going but ultimately decide against it, as they’re both a bit underdressed for what’s sure to be a loud and delightfully flamboyant affair. This is when they decide to part ways with a hug and plans for a third date. More conversation follows, and her guard is down enough to express mild frustration with aspects of her seemingly pleasant living situation.
This gives him the freedom to discuss his own experiences, touching briefly on the woes he’s experiencing with his roommates, but doing so in a way that avoids demonizing anyone. Restraint is key this early on. He understands that a romantic partner is not your therapist or your mother, regardless of how long you’ve been seeing them.
After another hug, she promises to text him when she gets home. He walks back to his car, his leftovers swinging casually at his side in an oversized take-out bag. He feels good about things, and when he gets home, he finds a text from her, informing him of her safe return and that their time together was lovely. He texts back his agreement and follows that up with a Hooters joke, a gentle reminder of the rapport that’s forming between them. Some time passes with no response, which doesn’t bother him. Her texts are sometimes sporadic, but ultimately receptive, which is why he pays it no mind. Factor in her alluding to having ADHD earlier that night, and it all makes sense.
It’s around twenty to thirty minutes later when she finally responds with a doozy. After greeting him with a casual “Hi” that somehow feels strangely formal, she repeats her earlier text but with several codicils, each one more surprising than the last. The first is that she’s really enjoyed getting to know him. This prompts a prickle of dread that creeps up his spine like a venomous spider that’s decided it’s been patient enough.
The second codicil is that their time together has not yielded the connection she’s looking for. This is capped off with her wishing him the best, a platitude he thought was reserved for high school yearbooks, written by people you had said roughly six words to in a class you can no longer remember.
The text stirs several reactions, mostly notably confusion. It’s barely been an hour since they last saw each other. The hood of his car is still warm. The confusion yields a response from him that’s not quite a red flag, but one that probably doesn’t do him any favors.
“The Hooters text was a joke,” he writes back.
He ends this statement with a period. Simple, effective, and no doubt reflecting the coldness that’s already mostly consumed the warmth and joy he was feeling.
And it was a joke. She knew that. She says so but points out that laughing at said joke right before landing the killing blow wouldn’t have been proper.
He says, “Okay,” and begins replaying everything in his head, looking for red flags that he either denied or missed the first time around. Once again, he can find none. After a few more minutes, he agrees that it was nice they met and offers her his own platitude, wishing her good luck with whatever her future endeavors are. And that’s the end of it.
Fleeting and ephemeral, like so many before her.