Chapter 3

The next day I didn’t hear from Josh. I didn’t care, he was a write-off. Still, best to be open to love, right? You never know. 

It was Saturday which meant I was working in my friend’s shop. In the modern world – dating, living your best life – these things cost money. In addition to my full time corporate job, I worked for cash on the weekends. It was a women’s clothing store in a refurbished Italian butcher shop with original marble counters and an old-fashioned cash register, now used for decoration. Fogging plastic heavy-duty strip curtains from long-gone walk-in freezers hung in front of the changing rooms. The location served as a memento to the neighborhood’s past. I would sit on my little stool, reading my murder mysteries, music floating in the background, occasionally chatting with customers, selling a skirt or dress here or there. 

In between customers I stared at my phone. 

Should I text him? 

Nah, you don’t even like him. 

Besides, he should text first. 

… but you don’t really like him!

As the day progressed I wondered why he hadn’t texted me. I mean, it’s not like he was at work – it was the weekend. He hadn’t mentioned any big plans. In fact, he said he wanted to lay low and catch up on some sleep, having felt sick the night before. So why wasn’t he texting me? 

The text game was the most exhausting part of the dating process. How many times had I been in this exact same position before – worrying about what someone else was doing (or not doing) and how I should best respond? I shouldn’t have cared why he wasn’t texting me, I should have asked myself whether I thought he was worth my time, not why he didn’t appear to have time for me. 

He just wasn’t that into me and I should’ve accepted it. I certainly didn’t waste any time pondering if I actually wanted him in my life. Instead, I admitted that, like so many before him, he would not end up being the love of my life in the new decade. Maybe there never would be anyone. 

Coupled people love to let you know how great it is to be single. If only they had the freedom to do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. In fact, you should relish your single time – it’s a chance to really figure out who you are. 

Then they turn around and ask if you’re seeing anyone.

I had a lovely two bedroom row home in a great neighborhood with increasing property values. A steady job with a pension and 401k. I was healthy and had a little extra money to splurge on the occasional oat milk cappuccino or weekend away with friends. Yet, when I would realize I hadn’t been on a date in a couple months and it all crept back. 

Not that it was particularly easy for anyone else. One night my neighbor, another beautiful, single woman in her 30s, and I decided to grab a few drinks at the bar around the corner. It was a busy Thursday night. We sat at one of the long tables taking up the back of the bar, small groups intermingling to the sound of lo-fi notes coming from the turntable in the front room.  After a couple hours, people began to thin out. We sat, laughing, enjoying our wine, not remembering or caring how many we drank, when a group of guys stood to leave. One came right up to her and announced, “I just wanted you to know you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He pivoted and walked away. 

Our eyes locked. She exclaimed, “Great, what am I supposed to do with that?!” arm gesturing into the air where the man just stood. She sighed and tossed back the last of her glass. 

Do couples even remember what it’s like to never be touched? To never feel someone brush their fingers gently along their arm as they sit laughing and joking with friends on a night out. To never have someone get up in the middle of the movie to make them a cup of tea because they’re tired. To never have someone else unload the dishwasher, or pick up the dry cleaning.  Who’ll get them orange juice and cold medicine when they’re sick? Who’ll make them dinner after a rough day at work? When you’re single you’re never someone else’s first choice. It’s a quiet oppression – slow and steady – adding bricks around you, one at a time, until you realize that you’re completely isolated.

Most of the time, I kept this at bay. But loneliness is a dangerous emotion. The lonelier you get, the more you pull away. The more you pull away, the worse it gets. I’d dealt with these emotions before and usually, I overcame them. Yet, the thought remained – What if I’m not meant to have love? What if I’m meant to be alone for the rest of my life? 

Not too long ago, Katy, in her infinite wisdom, said that I should accept that that might just be the case. I wasn’t even 40 yet, should I throw in the towel and accept spinsterdom? And how could she say this to me when she’d been single longer than I had? I could very well live into my 90s – that’s over 50 years of being alone! 

What’s worse was that she wasn’t the first person to wonder if, perhaps, I should accept my fate as a perpetual plus one. Another friend, married over 20 years by that time, commented that maybe accepting permanent single status wouldn’t be too bad for me. 

I was devastated that someone who hadn’t spent a single night alone in decades could drop such a comment so flagrantly, like a reflection on the weather. It burned inside me, always in the back of my mind. Maybe she was right? Maybe I’m not worth loving. Katy repeating the remark only confirmed my fears. 

I often wanted to confront her about it, something she said in such a carefree manner that it most likely blew from her thoughts as quickly as it came. I never did. Years later, she walked out on our friendship – releasing herself, quietly removing all connections, as I struggled through the hardest moments of my life. When I woke up, scared from the heartache, she was gone. A blank space where a great friend had been. I never attempted to ask her why – sometimes, we don’t get to know why things turn out the way they do, and other times, maybe it’s none of our business. 

Was I meant to be alone? I looked at my life – what I had built. It was good, but it was hardly what I wanted forever. I was going to move to Paris, nestle into a pied-a-terre on a tree-lined street of the 11th arrondissement and write my novel. I would travel to Japan, stroll the streets of Tomigaya, rush through Shibuya Crossing and savor each and every bowl of ramen I could eat. I wanted to share all that with someone. 

The fear came back. The fear that wants you to think you are less than – your hopes and dreams, they’re just that. Those wishes are for someone else, while you, you’re meant for a world of experiences lived alone. 

The next day I was back in the shop, on my stool – reading, existing. Ryan texted. HOW DID MY BIG NEW YEAR'S DAY DATE GO?

Sigh. 

IT WAS AMAZING. THE DATE LASTES 8.5 HOURS. WE HUNG OUT THE NEXT NIGHT TOO.

LOVE APPEARS IMMINENT.

BUT I HAVEN'T HEARD FROM HIM SINCE FRIDAY NOW.

MAYBE HE'S NOT AS INTERESTED AS I THOUGHT.

I waited, watching the three dots dance on the screen. 

PERHAPS, he wrote.

Shit. But now was my chance to use Ryan’s single, straight guy insights to my advantage – a wealth of cis-man knowledge right at my fingertips. When we first met, Ryan was married, which, at that time, to me, seemed absolutely insane. I was 21, he 25 – his wife somewhere around 30, practically ancient. I thought she was nice, of course, but I couldn’t wrap my head around the lifestyle they lived.  Ryan and I had become friends through the fleeting bonds you create with people at that age – a girl from the dorms with a cool haircut, a guy who lit your cigarette on the street after everyone crowded out of the club at closing time – molding and blending as you figure life out. 

One night, he and I ended up alone somehow, huddled at a tiny table in a cheap vegetarian restaurant in Chinatown. Enjoying my General Tso’s tofu, a piece of broccoli escaped my clumsy chopsticks and bounced off my plate to the floor. Our eyes met. I pinched my lips. Without looking away, he raised his hand, “Excuse me, could we get a fork, please?”  I covered my mouth in laughter.  

As is often the case, time took its toll and our circles began to ripple further and further apart. Over the years, I saw online that he had a girlfriend, then a child, then later, as it often goes, a return to Tinder. If anyone would know the thoughts and motivations of the modern man, it had to be him, surely? 

I'D MAYBE TRY ONCE MORE TO ENGAGE IF IT SEEMED POSITIVE. AND THEN LEAVE IT AT THAT? he added. 

I mulled it over. I wanted to be tough, to say, sorry guy, you missed your chance. But then my wistful side thought that maybe something happened and he just didn’t have the chance to get in touch. Maybe by sending this message, it would jumpstart the conversation and we would fall in love, forever. 

I stared at the screen, what to say? I typed, HEY, HOPE YOU GOT SOME REST AND ARE FEELING BETTER!

A couple hours later he read the message. How do I know that? He used the READ feature on his phone. In a world of dating games and constant guessing, READ-enabled added another dynamic, grim layer to finding love. I’m fine with you knowing I saw your text, I guess you’ll have to wait and see, if and when I respond. No thanks.

HI! JUST WOKE UP FROM A NAP. HOW WAS YOUR WEEKEND?

How was my weekend? Great! Just ruminating on why you didn’t respond to me earlier and a myriad of other things that relate to what I could, or could not have done, wrong. OH YOU KNOW, NOTHING SPECIAL. Perfect.

COOL, COOOL. GOT DRINKS WITH FRIENDS LAST NIGHT, FEELING EXHAUSTED. I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT DAT IT IS ANYMORE. OH WELL, WHATCHA GONNA DO. LOL.  Clearly. MAYBE YOU WANT TO COME OVER HERE AND HANG?

This guy was always tired. I swapped back to Ryan. HE JUST WANTS TO GET LAID, DOESN'T HE? I texted, hoping for a response I was never going to get. 

PROBABLY, he replied.