First Last Date

“I don’t know, sometimes it feels like you like the way I make you feel more than you actually like me.”

That was the last thing he ever said to me.

If that seems like an odd place to end a conversation, and subsequently stand up and walk away, it’s because it is. Dylan was like that though. Sometimes I feel like he made every decision based on what would have the most dramatic effect. He wasn’t dramatic per se though. He rarely complained, almost never gossiped, and was frustratingly coy about his emotions.

I’m not sure he meant for those to be his last words to me. He went missing 8 hours later, dramatic timing even in death, what a dick. I say death because that was over a year ago and that’s how odds work, but the truth is I haven’t really accepted that he’s gone. Of anyone I know (knew?) Dylan would be the most likely to fuck off to the Bahamas or somewhere and not tell anyone. We once went to a music festival with a big group of our friends and got separated for a whole day. We assumed he would meet us back at our tent but the night came and went. The next day, too hungover to be in full panic mode, we stumbled towards the food trucks only to find him surrounded by a whole new group of friends, laughing and debriefing from the previous night. He hadn’t even considered we might be worried about him. It was frustrating that he hadn’t been considerate enough to even send a text but it was more frustrating that he managed to spin the whole ordeal into a charming and genuinely endearing anecdote.

If I was guilty of “liking the way Dylan made me feel more than I actually liked him,” I certainly wasn’t the only one. He had a way of drawing people in. He wasn’t gregarious or even all that amusing on the surface, I guess he was just one of those magnetic people. Or maybe we’ve all just forgotten what it’s like to encounter a good listener.

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The sky was growing darker by the second even though it was only noon, and I had originally planned to walk the 6 blocks to the bar it now seemed best to opt for the subway. As I hopped on the sparsely populated car I pulled out my phone because god forbid I make eye contact with a human stranger. I found myself staring blankly at my phone more and more frequently in the year following Dylan’s disappearance. Not that you need a tragic backstory to be another person staring blankly at your phone for 8 hours a day, but I think part of me was still expecting a message. Sometimes, after cycling through my socials and scrolling listlessly through my photo album I would pull up our old text conversations and relive them as if he were still here. Now here I was on the subway, hurtling towards my first date in 14 months, smiling to myself at a dumb joke he had made about a pasta-making class he was running late to. As the corners of my mouth crept upwards I caught myself and switched over to my newly downloaded dating app to get reacquainted with the image of the person I was on my way to meet so I would be able to spot her. Marsha. Weird old lady name, but she was cute; bright purple hair with an undercut on one side and a down-to-earth punk sensibility that excited me and intimidated me in equal measure.

I’m not ready for this. I mean sure it’s been 14 months since my last relationship mysteriously ended but how do you get over someone who (probably) literally ghosted you?

I emerged from the subway and just as I had suspected it had begun to drizzle. Luckily the bar where we were meeting was close to the station. Unluckily, because I had opted for the subway, I was now about 15 minutes early and would have to spend more time dicking around on my phone, avoiding eye contact with strangers while trying to look occupied and not like I’m at a bar all alone on a Saturday at noon.

I find myself missing him most in the in-between. His memory pushing its way into the quiet moments between manic anxiety spirals that occupy my day. Baggy sweaters with holes, the feeling of his beard after not shaving for a while, that specific type of fart that sounds like a sped-up slide whistle, the smell of rosemary, and fuck…this bar, The Shaggy Lamp.

I can’t believe I hadn’t realized when she suggested we meet here but Dylan and I had come here together once. I can hardly remember the circumstances or what we talked about but it was the only other time I’d been here. Now every corner of the musty and dark tavern seemed to hold the key to unlocking the secrets of our entire history.

I unconsciously (ok maybe semi-consciously) gravitated towards the booth in the corner where we sat something like 5 years earlier. I sat down across from a much younger version of Dylan and the strong sense of déjà vu began to fill in the cracks in my memory. He was wearing that same ratty red flannel as the last time I saw him and though I was sure it was mostly a false memory I could hear his little chuckle bubbling up uncontrollably.

“No fucking way dude!” He mustered through a laugh.

“Sorry man, I don’t make the rules, next rounds on you.”

“Do you do this to all your dates?” He managed, still laughing.

“Oh shit is this a date?”

“Shut up.”

“No I didn’t realize you dated people from the Midwest.” I was feeling more playful than usual; he was usually the one doing the teasing.

“Oh my god not this again!”

“You’re words, not mine.” My phone buzzed. I looked down.

Marsha: Hey, I’m here.

Shit.

“Ok but seriously imma really need you to wean yourself off of that thing.” He was always upset about my phone usage, especially in social situations, and he wasn’t wrong; I had a real problem and I still do. Then again so does everyone else these days…is what I’ve been telling myself for years as I stare down at my phone and miss another joke that everyone laughs at.

“There you are, hey!” Her voice was smoky and casual. I jumped, startled as I struggled to place myself in time.

“Hey!” I stood up and gave her an awkward side hug as she moved to sit across from me.

“Did you order already?”

“No I was waiting for you, I’ll run and grab us some drinks. What do you want?”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.” She said this with a wry smile as if she knew the amount of anxiety that simple sentence would cause me. Do I pick something cheap, unpretentious and drinkable or something mature and cool? Fuck, I can barely make decisions for myself. What if she’s allergic to something? Surely she wouldn’t ask to be surprised if that were the case.

“Can I help you, Boss?”

I legitimately jumped as the tattoo-covered bartender jolted me out of a thought spiral that had carried me obliviously all the way to the bar.

“Uhhh, just um, two…beers.” What the fuck was that!? What am I a character on a TV show where there is only one brand of beer?

To his credit, the bartender took it in stride and brought me two Coors Banquets. I walked back to the table determined to stop overthinking my decision or lack thereof.

“Ooh good choice.” I couldn’t tell if she was being nice or she was actually relieved that I had gone the simple, straightforward route. Either way, it put me at ease.

Before I knew it we were knee-deep in a fairly standard first-date conversation but I was having fun and I think she was too. It wasn’t that our conversation was all that interesting but it flowed easily and felt comfortable.

“What? They make good music, I know it’s super depressing but it’s so good!”

“Oh no you’re one of those ‘sad indie boiz’ aren’t you?”

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Relax, I’m fucking with you.” She leaned back as she laughed and then grew suddenly quiet as if she was retreating into her head to fully take me in and debrief from the first half of our date. “But you do seem kinda…sad though.”

“Sad? Damn sorry to be bringing you down I guess.” I tried to sound playful, but I think it came across more as nervous.

“I don’t mean now, just like…underneath. I dunno maybe I’m way off base here but it just kinda seems like you might be working through some stuff.”

“Are you sure you’re not just looking for another man to perform free emotional labor for?” This was a clever callback to when she referenced her shitty ex earlier. Was I nailing this date? Seeing as she just called me sad, maybe not.

“Ah ha. Well for the record my ex was not a man.”

“Oh.”

Fuck I hate when people project straightness onto me but apologizing now feels like it would make it worse. There was a brief but audible silence.

“Anyways, we don’t need to talk about them. Tell me why you’re so sad.” She said playfully, diffusing the slight tension.

“Fuck you” I laughed

“Fine you don’t have to tell me but I think I’m onto something here.”

I laughed again before it faded into a smile. Fuck it.

“Yeah no I mean I guess you’re not wrong” I paused, doubting myself again for a second. “My ex…well my boyfriend at the time…went uh…missing."

“Missing?” She questioned with a casual but almost aloof curiosity, like a seasoned detective from a noir film. It felt like she should be smoking a cigarette but she wasn’t because we were indoors and she probably doesn’t even smoke.

“Straight up missing. The cops never really had any leads. He just… vanished.”

She paused and leaned back as if considering the evidence.

“So did you kill him?”

“What?”

“Your ex. Did you kill him? Nine times out of ten it’s the boyfriend.”

“What? No.”

“Dude. Fucking with you again.” She said, pointing to her face as if her deadpan was a clear giveaway.

We both laughed. Then nothing. This time the silence wasn’t uncomfortable; we sat in it for a few moments before she earnestly proceeded.

“I’m sorry, that sucks.”

“Thanks.”

Another silence.

Dylan used to say that he loved the sound of my silence. While that sounds like maybe the most insulting thing you could say to someone, I found it really sweet. He would say that everybody has a unique silence and he liked mine best. It was cute, but I also sort of thought it was saccharine bullshit. Dylan was the type of guy who is unassumingly ~spiritual~, which meant he could be genuinely insufferable while still seeming annoyingly cool and down to earth. Now, sitting across from Marsha, our eyes locked, I began to feel what he meant—I liked her silence. It was focused, confident, and potent.

“What was your least favorite thing about him?”

“Excuse me?”

“What was your least favorite thing about him? Your ex.”

“I’m not sure how to answer that.”

“Sorry, I just…” She continued cautiously. “About 7 years ago I lost my Mom. It was really hard and honestly still is. But sometimes I like to think about the things I most disliked about her. Of course now even the things I hated feel endearing. I dunno, it doesn’t mean I loved her any less but sometimes it just helps to remember that it wasn’t always easy.”

“I’m really sorry about your mom.” I never know what to say to grieving people. It’s so odd that the agreed-upon procedure is to apologize.

“Thanks.” She was clearly a lot less comfortable talking about her own issues. “So what was it, your least favorite thing?”

“I might have to think on that.”

“Sorry, I’m probably being—“

“No, it’s fine. I just…that’s a good question, I want to be thoughtful about my answer.”

“That’s a good answer…well half-answer.”

We both reached for our beers and finished them off in big gulps.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” She said, leaning forward with a mischievous grin.

“And go where?”

“Not sure, let’s go for a walk.”

“It’s raining.”

“Oh right.” She leaned back, deflated.

“We’ll make it work, c’mon.”

I grabbed her hand as we stood up and made our way to the door. It was a bolder move than I would normally make but I think it was the right one. As we exited into the drizzling rain I glanced back at the booth where we had just been sitting. Dylan looked up at me and winked as if he was in on some untold joke, he wore that half-smile that I think he always thought was charming but I found to be a bit smug.

Come to think of it I kind of hated that look.