A couple of weeks ago I was perusing the daily specials, the menu of men that one site was recommending for me. One stood out. I’m not sure why, but something…. I messaged him and said just that.

We emailed back and forth, agreed we should meet, and made a plan. Sounds easy, but it took us weeks to come up with a time. He picked an interesting place for drinks. I appreciated the effort that went into finding a good spot. We were off to a good start; this was the first date I’ve gone into optimistically.

It also marked another dating milestone; my first ever nighttime date (and a Saturday, no less!). Threw me into a tizzy of wardrobe decisions. I sent photos of me in various ensembles to friends in a group text. I left them to discuss the options and make the decision while I showered. Thank you, village-it-took-to-dress-me.

We had tons of things in common. We talked about the arcs of our families and how we had gotten to this same place. We share political views and social sensibilities. We both have casual styles. After talking for over 2 hours (and only a couple of drinks each), we were surprised how much time had passed. We parted with a slightly awkward hug and agreed that this had been a successful date. We would definitely do it again.

But what did we mean by successful? There were no sparks. It was a nice evening. Which is what I said in my brief email the next day; “thanks for a very nice evening.” A couple of days passed, and I heard back.

Ready? He wrote to tell me that he had met someone…he believed “the one,” in the days since we’d met (I believe he was sincere). He was kind and encouraging, and thoughtful enough to let me know. I’m nothing but happy for him, for them, and for their fireworks.