Last Friday, I went on the first date of my life. We spent four hours at a bar, which felt like a promising amount of time for someone to voluntarily keep talking to me. I was nervous and shy, but I wanted to be there. Very much.
She touched me throughout the evening—about fifteen times, if my memory can be trusted. I noticed every one. I was too nervous to easily reach back toward her, so there was this unevenness between how much I felt and how little I knew how to show.
By the end of the night, I felt as though I’d fallen in love with her. That may sound like a lot for one date. It was a lot to feel, too. When her bus arrived, I hugged her goodbye.
About forty minutes later, I texted to ask whether she’d gotten home safely. I told her I’d enjoyed our time together and wanted to see her again soon. She said she’d just gotten into bed, and that she’d had a wonderful time too.
That reply gave me something solid to hold on to. I hadn’t simply imagined that the evening had gone well. She’d enjoyed it. She had said so.
We chatted a little after that, but the pace changed. One reply took a day. During the wait, she posted an Instagram story with a guy drinking wine. I don’t know who he was or what it meant. I only know that seeing it while waiting to hear from her hurt.
The next day, she sent a voice message saying she’d been working a lot and was tired. On Thursday, I asked whether she wanted to meet again. Four days later, that message still hadn’t been marked as read.
I keep coming back to the four hours at the bar and her saying she’d had a wonderful time. Then I look at the invitation sitting there unopened. I’m starting to think she isn’t interested. Is that what this silence means?
