To The Guy Who Took Me on My First Real Date in Literal Years

oh no, this starting to sound pathetic

I don’t know if it was your gentleness or dry sense of humor. It could have been our shared interest in shoegaze, your quirky collection of duck figurines, or general penchant for the analog. Maybe it was the movies we watched on your little tube TV together on the couch—Pulp Fiction and Titanic—bodies intertwined, as I fell asleep with my head on your chest.

Perhaps it was the moment you grabbed my hand as we walked in the Los Angeles rain to your brick first-floor walkup after dinner. Could’ve been the kisses on my neck. Or the warm light from your bedside salt lamp on my bare breasts. It might have been your long hair or the belly laughs we shared or the music we listened to off my favorite playlist, face to face in our pajamas at midnight.

Maybe it was the simple fact that you made an effort to choose a restaurant, pick me up on time, and feed me pasta.

I felt safe.

And understood.

And comfortable.

…. and like I might actually be lovable. Like my laundry list of baggage didn’t matter. I was the morning dew, the wet sand, the dark clouds in the star-studded sky. I belonged for one night.

The truth is, I forgot that men like you exist. Kind, humble, soft-spoken, gentle, artistic, funny, with great style. You gave me a warmth that’s escaped me at every turn, a feeling I haven’t felt in what seems like a lifetime.

When you told me at dinner that you weren’t looking for anything serious I breathed a sigh of relief. I was protected now. Thank GOD I don’t have to play a game anymore, this can just be what it is! I won’t get my hopes up! I can just be myself because I’m never going to see you again, probably!

It is unfair of me to cast all my yearning upon your flannel-cloaked back. You didn’t ask for that. And yet here I am, writing about you and your ducks. Still thinking about how it felt to be under your covers.