By the end of our first date, we had spent three hours talking and played three games of chess. By the end of our second, three weeks later, I was asking whether I would see her again. Her answer was that she didn’t know.
I’m 29, and this had been my first date in seven years. She was 25, and we’d met on Tinder. We arranged to get coffee, which turned into the kind of evening I’d hoped dating could still be: easy conversation, shared interests, and no obvious struggle to find the next thing to say.
We talked about work and family, travel, music, books, and cats. There seemed to be something else we had in common every time we changed the subject. The chess games were part of those three hours, alongside all that conversation. From my side of the table, it felt like we had connected.
She had mentioned that her work schedule was chaotic and that she wasn’t always quick to answer messages. At the end of the evening, I walked her to her car. We both said we wanted to meet again. Later, I texted to say I’d enjoyed myself and hoped she’d gotten home safely. She replied that she’d had fun too.
Two days later, I asked her to dinner. Her answer arrived another two days after that: she wanted to go, but she wouldn’t be free until the following week. I said that was fine. I liked her, and waiting for a time that worked didn’t seem like much of a problem.
For the next few days, we exchanged occasional messages, usually at different times. When I asked again the following week, she was busy. The week after that, she said she had some time. By the time we finally sat down for our second date, 21 days had passed since the coffee.
I chose a restaurant downtown. She arrived about 40 minutes late; rush-hour traffic may have been the reason, though I don’t know. We greeted each other with a hug, then sat down. I’d been looking forward to picking up where we’d left off. Instead, the conversation stayed close to the surface.
There wasn’t one dramatic moment when everything went wrong. We simply couldn’t seem to find the ease we’d had before. She took a call from a friend during dinner. I wondered whether I was nervous, or whether the connection I remembered just wasn’t there this time. I couldn’t tell how much of that first evening she had felt the same way about.
After dinner, I suggested a walk. I hadn’t allowed for how cold and windy it would be outside. When she said she was cold, I offered her my jacket, but she declined. Then she said she had to work early the next morning and wanted to go home.
We hugged goodbye. I asked if I would get to see her again, and she said she didn’t know before heading to her car. I was disappointed. I’d really liked her, and I’d spent those three weeks looking forward to another evening together. I still wondered whether the gap had made us feel like strangers again. But after that goodbye, I decided not to send another invitation.
