"Dream Date"

You asked me what I wanted to drink, a simple question though I found it odd as I already had a glass of water and was quite satisfied with it. But when you asked me a second time I felt I had to choose something else. That it would not do to be as boring as my first choice, so instead I asked for a glass of wine, hoping it would invoke in me some sort of air of sophistication, one that may impress you. I specified the wine to be a glass of Merlot, although I’m unsure why, I couldn’t even recall what exactly it tasted like, but it had to be this or else I resolved I wouldn’t drink anything else. I suppose it was also a challenge of sorts— that if you somehow had this wine in your possession, I would take it as a sign that this first date was going in the right direction, that our meeting was somehow serendipitous after all.

I’m not even sure what the signs were that lead me here in the first place, at that point I only knew a digital version of you and maybe that was enough, clearly I was feeling too nervous to meet you in person anyway. It must have been because your first message to me was at 6:11pm, which I took to mean as a sign that our personalities would be a good match as six plus one plus one equals eight and eight is the symbol of balance.

Anyway, it was on instinct that it had to be this drink. That somehow I’d seem intelligent and mature, my impression that wine drinkers are a specific type of person, all more classy types than I consider myself to be. An illusion of the substance but one I was willing to play into for the sake of potentially winning you over. Because in that moment when I first arrived, I did care about just that. In the end, you just so happened to have a bottle of what was requested, which I found endearing, a simple thing, my specific needs being met, and I again took it as yet another sign that you would in fact be able to care for me… if ever there was a future in this, between us to be shared. Perhaps it was a bit of a leap, but it was my initial interpretation of those signs so I believed it to be true, an intuitive knowing.

And, you see, I wanted the date to go well— I hadn’t been on one in five years, becoming superstitious in my tendencies to read into certain signs, looking for ones implying this would be a good thing, dating again, it had to be just right. I wouldn’t accept anything less, what was the point, I would have gladly waited another five years for yet another sign and by then I probably wouldn’t care about dating anymore, choosing to be alone for a second five year cycle, meeting my own needs and quite satisfied all the same. So when you presented me with this glass of Merlot I came to realize that we were off to a good start, and this came as a pleasant surprise.

But then the signs were taking a turn as, you see, you were quite rude when I asked to smell the cork. Granted it was sudden, but you see it reminds me of my parents, they used to collect them from their opened bottles and as a child I would steal sniffs of their forbidden scent. So this act brings me comfort actually and seeing that I haven’t dated in years I thought it might put me at ease. So when you looked at me funnily after the question I couldn’t quite tell if I felt foolish for asking or if you were actually unkind. And I concluded that maybe the truth was you didn’t like children at all, a quality that I cannot stand.

From then on, I became too focused on myself. I couldn’t stop biting my nails, it hurt, my teeth felt too weak to defy the strength of them but I couldn’t stop until the task was done or else my fingers would look uneven and you may not find me attractive anymore. I doubt you were looking at my hands anyway but I took the precaution all the same, I couldn’t risk it— I had decided that a certain perfectionism in my appearance was the only thing I had going for me, my insecurities of being uninteresting heightened each time I started on another nail. Before I could finish my second hand, however, you commented on what I was doing and it was because you noticed I took this to mean you wouldn’t be able to stand me, all parts of me and my idiosyncrasies.

Then, throughout the date you complimented me several times on my hair, how long and beautiful it was, or I suppose “is” it’s still the same. While at first I was flattered, the more you mentioned it the more I started envisioning it falling out— that if I were to continue to date you a curse would befall me and I would lose one of my more redeeming superficial qualitites, the only one you’ve complimented me on thus far. And so I then became hyper aware of what I looked like to you, worried that if I held eye contact with you for too long I would not only lose my hair but perhaps turn into stone altogether, a gargoyle in your home instead of the original woman to date. So I also occupied my time by touching it lightly, making sure my hair was still there, that none had fallen out just yet. You must have noticed I couldn’t look you directly in the eye for too long, and that I couldn’t let go of my hair, I’m hoping you just thought I was nervous, though I bet you find me a bit strange now.

Things after that took more of a turn and I began to get to know you. You spoke to me almost in riddles, almost like a strange poetic version of what you meant to say, as you answered my questions and offered me little in return to the elaborate stories I gave you. Granted, I was nervously talking to fill up the space of how awkward this was, that we hadn’t met in person until now and that you were virtually a stranger to me despite weeks of messaging back and forth. I’m not sure what I expected, perhaps I thought you’d turn out to be a nightingale, lulling me to a dreamlike state with your melodic cadence but instead I found your tone to be generally of one note. In the moment I took this to mean that I didn’t find you charming, so I began to write you off and everything you had to say, which I realize now was entirely unfair of me. You are not a bird at all but a human and I should have accepted your very human qualities and speech as such, grateful that we were able to communicate at all.

I then became too consumed with the color of the walls to listen to what you had to say, it was the same shade of white as my grandmothers and I was unsure if that meant something good or telling of our age difference. When I asked you what it was exactly that you do I realized that my toes were cold and the riddle wasn’t so much in your answer as it was in my body’s reaction to what was said. Do toes go cold in response to boredom? Or was I actually attracted to you and your work ethic and it was my feet’s way of telling me that this was in fact a sign that I liked you? You mentioned you traveled for work and I pictured you not efficient and concise with your movements but wandering, suitcase in hand, allowing travel’s romance to guide you to new places, the places you were required to go. Perhaps that’s why my toes reacted, for a moment my feet wished to travel with you, in the idyllic sense where this first date turns to many, to the inevitable relationship. What was it that you did when you got there? I hate to say it, but it must not have been interesting enough, I cannot remember, my mind is blank.

At one point you took my hand and I was taken aback by your touch, the sudden movement. I tried to feel if it was your hand or mine that was a bit cold and clammy but I couldn’t quite discern who's skin was who’s. Why did you grab it in the first place? When I looked up at you, you didn’t even look back and I was confused what this offering might mean so I stole my hand back quickly, afraid of the intimate gesture, after all I was still only getting to know you.

And as the night progressed I wondered what it was I actually liked about you at all. But you had presented me with my ideal drink so I felt it would be rude to just get up and leave, so I stayed. Stayed to listen to you talk about nothing, biding my time until I could leave, where I could once again be in solitude, not worrying if my fingernails were even or that I might lose my hair and drink my water in peace. Or perhaps you were making sense, as I was too consumed with my signs and superstitions that I stopped giving you my full attention. You see, as the date wore on I realized it was too much of a headache trying to understand these things. But not for my lack of trying, I really did try to like you, I just don’t think it was meant to be. It’s just that time had started to constrict, it wore down my patience, patience required to read all these signs that were presented to me. I was stubborn in an adolescent sort of sense, captive to reading into everything and grasping to make sense of anything as I was out of my element, leaving my five year dry spell to enter the waters of the dating pool, a decision I came to regret.

So, you see, I’m writing you this letter to thank you for my glass of wine but also to say I don’t think we are a good match. I hope you find what you’re looking for, you really do seem great and after all, we have the same taste in spirit. As I sit here, it is also occurring to me that it wasn’t in fact you but my troubling mind that’s the problem. It would seem I’m not ready to date at all but I’ll thank you for giving me the opportunity to try and again of course for the glass of wine, which in reflecting back was the true bright spot of my time spent with you. I hope you find what you’re looking for, it surely isn’t me either since when leaving you shook my hand instead of a kiss goodnight.

Sincerely,

Claire

P.S. I’m sure you understand by now that this is an email, not a letter, but I thought in calling it that I would leave you with a lasting impression that I am in fact sophisticated after all.