post date updates
I wake earlier than expected, buzzing with a restless energy. Suddenly, the dishes need washing, the clothes strewn across my bedroom floor for weeks finally demand attention. Nerves? Maybe. Or maybe it’s the penjamin I smoked to steady myself—or some secret third thing.
Today is my first date in five years.
Five. Years.
August is re-entering the dating scene, and my body has decided to feel everything at once. Dry mouth, racing heart, the works. We’ve graduated from sparse Tinder messages to near-daily texts, and something about him feels… good. Not in a “this is my future lover” way (though, sure, that’d be nice), but in a way that hums with easy, genuine energy. Still, my mind spirals through a thousand what-ifs, so I retreat into High Fidelity (2020) to ground myself. There’s freedom in meeting someone new—freedom in the possibility, freedom in never talking again.
If tonight goes well, I think I’ll make him a playlist. Something that captures the way he thinks, the way his curls fall over his shoulders, the way his gaze lingers.
The hours drag. I fixate on my hair, rehearse questions in my head, agonize over whether I’ll “do this right.” My makeup routine becomes a ritual, accompanied by the familiar murmur of a show I’ve watched a hundred times. When my friend arrives to drop me off, my stomach flips.
I arrive fifteen minutes after him, not because I’m late, but because he’s that early. His smile hits me first, then the eye contact, warm but I can’t deny I’m overwhelmed. We settle into a corner booth at a local spot, pizza and wine between us. Halfway through, I realize I haven’t taken a single bite. Dinner dates, I decide, aren’t ideal for first meetings—too much focus on conversation that I forget to eat anything.
An hour in, I’m not ready to leave, so I suggest we walk. We wander with no destination, trading stories aimlessly. Then he asks: “Want to watch The Sinners with me?”
I’ve already seen it, but I say yes.
The theater is packed. The entire film, I fight the urge to reach for his hand, to let my fingers brush his thigh. Too forward? Maybe. So I keep my hands to myself, stealing glances instead.
When the credits roll, we dissect the movie in his car on the way home. And then—finally—I make my move. His hand meets mine, and we stay like that until he pulls up to my door.
The night leaves me with a kiss and anticipation for a second date.
(the next day…)
We’ve already planned a second date that unfortunately at the end of the month, thanks to our schedules—but the thrill isn’t all about him. It’s the reminder that connection is still possible, even after I’d convinced myself it wasn’t in the cards for me.