He had reserved us a table and sent over drinks on the house. What he hadn't sent was a text. Normally, complimentary drinks would count as a fairly successful evening. This time, I was wondering whether the man arranging them had already lost interest in me.
We had slept together earlier that day. By evening, I was back at the restaurant where he worked as a manager, with a friend who knew nothing about it. I was trying to behave normally while privately examining the difference between hospitality and continued sexual interest.
I'm 26, and he's 31. My friend and I go there regularly for drinks, and I'd liked him from the first day. He had an innocent-looking face and an easy way of talking to people. Two weeks before we slept together, he made it clear that we should stop ignoring the attraction and get in touch. I gave him my number.
Some of his messages had sexual undertones. That suited me: I wanted sex, too. I wasn't setting out to begin a relationship. His work environment was something I already felt anxious about, which hardly made him my obvious candidate for a calm romantic future. A casual encounter seemed like a much simpler proposition. My confidence in the word 'simpler' has since declined.
Getting together took some arranging. He finished work at two in the morning; I was due to start at eight. When he picked me up, he was drunk and exhausted. We had sex, and he dropped me at work around ten that morning before going home to sleep again. The hours were awkward, but we had managed to see each other.
When he woke up, he texted me. We talked normally. There wasn't an immediate disappearance after sex, which is one reason the silence later felt so confusing. I had a message from him, followed by an ordinary conversation, before I began wondering where the conversation had gone.
Then my friend wanted to go to that particular restaurant. While the manager and I were texting, I told him. He reassured me that he was professional, that what had happened was between us, and that I didn't need to feel uncomfortable. So we went. He arranged the table and the complimentary drinks. I felt shy and anxious, but I wasn't deliberately distant; I was still flirting.
He didn't text throughout his shift. We left, and there was still no message. Being busy at work could explain that. It could also be that he wasn't interested in another encounter. The table and drinks didn't settle it: they were welcoming gestures at a place where welcoming people was part of his job.
I wanted something casual, yet I still wanted to know whether the interest was mutual. Those aren't incompatible wishes. I wasn't asking him to turn one night into a relationship; I was trying to work out whether there might be another night. Somehow, admitting that to myself felt easier than sending a perfectly ordinary text.
About ten hours after we'd been together, I was already worrying about looking anxious if I contacted him, or looking unable to recognize ghosting if I missed a hint. My friend had wanted an evening out. I had come away wanting to send the manager a message, with no idea whether he was waiting for one or had finished the conversation.
