Little Talks: Remember Our First Date?

A series of short stories about a relationship starring a fictional couple who live rent free in Scott’s head.

“Do you remember our first date?” she asks during another date, the number of which I have absolutely no clue. We’ve gone on many in a year’s time — though not as many as many newish couples do, as I have a slight aversion to leaving the house and often look at it as more of an unnecessary inconvenience than a potentially good time. This hasn’t been that much of a point of contention just yet, but I can see it becoming one — something I fear she brings up at least semi-often to her friends and family as not exactly a green flag or a sustainable way to conduct a relationship. I often concoct in my head what’s being said about me in her various group chats. This is narcissistic, sure, but that doesn’t make it something I don’t do.

Tonight’s the anniversary of said first date, and we’ve returned to the hotel bar where it took place, which came about after an appropriate amount of semi-witty banter on one of the dating apps from my iPhone folder titled “Don’t Die Alone.”

We’re celebrating this anniversary because there’s really no other anniversary to celebrate that we can pinpoint. There wasn’t a night when we “made things official” or anything like that. The closest we came was when we had a discussion about my finally deleting my “Don’t Die Alone” folder. Or maybe it was the time when she revealed to me that after many months she had finally saved my number into her contacts. Though I have not made note of those dates, except maybe in my journal, which I never go back and read.

I was new in town then and didn’t really know a good date spot, so I did what I almost always do when I’m flummoxed: I consulted the internet and found a place that would serve its purpose. I’m not the best at planning a date, because I’m easy and don’t want for much. I just want a bar to sit at with the person who has agreed to spend some of their free time with me. One that’s not too loud where we can have a conversation without screaming at each other. Because I feel as though screaming at each other is far from the best way to start what may become a lasting monogamous relationship.

Many couples do this — this returning to the spot where they first met. Many couples do most of the things we do. We know this to be true, but we still think in some way we’re special. And we’re not above doing what many before us have done before. At least sometimes. Nothing in a relationship is truly original. Not your firsts. Not your lasts. Not anything that comes in between. You are not unique. And neither is what you’re going through together, even though many of us wish we were and that it was, and try to convince ourselves of as much.

Anyway.

“Sure I do,” I say, though between us, I was pretty drunk by the time I showed up. It’s not a great habit to get into, but knocking back a few drinks before a date has always helped alleviate my angst and get me loose for what I hope is going to be some compelling and entertaining conversation at the very least, and some heavy petting of some sort if things really work out well. And I like to continue to drink throughout the date, as one does. Truth be told, there have been times when I have drastically overshot my pre-date consumption and have either canceled last minute in an attempt at self-preservation, or gone ahead with it and made a complete fool of myself.

So things are, admittedly, a little bit fuzzy. And my memory isn’t what it used to be. Many brain cells have been lost in an attempt to keep a somewhat even keel — and in the name of having a little bit of fun. (I’ve actually considered starting Prevagen even though I’m only in my mid-30’s.)

But not the important parts. I still do — and probably always will — remember how she looked when she walked into the bar a few minutes late (no knock on her, it’s just that public transportation is wildly unreliable), where I was already waiting with a drink. The tights she wore. The way she smiled. Her infectious laugh. How engaging she was when we spoke about pretty much anything — especially books. How she kissed. How she accepted my invite back to my apartment even though she had a very early morning ahead of her. And how back there in my bed she told me I had “Really picked that lock.” (I’ve rarely been prouder to get such great feedback, though I would later find out I hadn’t fully gotten her there — albeit not for a lack of trying.)

“I seem to recall that at one point you straight-up asked me if I was doing cocaine in the bathroom,” I continue, and she laughs.

“Can you really blame me, though? Your trips there were frequent.”

“You now know I have a tiny bladder. And compulsively check my phone for work messages.”

“I didn’t know that back then. Oh. And there was the sweating.”

“Another thing you’ve grown to know is part of this — the complete package,” I say, gesturing to my figure.

“But that led to your story about the first time you did try the Devil’s Dandruff, which was entertaining.”

“Ah, yeah, that was a wild night. Memorable in its own way.”

She takes a sip of her red wine, says, “I also vividly recall thinking you weren’t interested, for whatever reason.”

“It had been a long week.”

“It seemed like you were just like, ‘Oh, fuck, here we go again — another date,’ and I felt my optimism starting to wane.”

“Well, I can tell you now like I did back then that my interest was immediate, and it hasn’t really waned since.”

“That’s sweet.”

“And after all, didn’t you find my perceived aloofness somewhat attractive?”

“Something like that.”

“If I had been too overeager, you’d have been out the door. That’s a lesson I’d learned through the years.”

“Yes, during your sordid past.”

“Something like that.”

“So here’s a question,” she says and we both pause to take respective sips.

“Shoot.”

“A year in, would you go back and do it all again? And knowing what you know now, would you do things differently based on your learnings?”

“I’d go back not to do things differently, but to experience it all over,” I say. “There’s nothing like that newness — the excitement that comes with a first meeting that goes really well, and completely exceeds any expectations you may have had. And then there’s the Honeymoon Period, when you’re in the process of getting to know someone decently well and are so extremely excited about where things might be going. The butterflies. All that stuff.”

“Have we lost that, do you think?”

“Not yet. We’re just more comfortable now. We’ve become best friends who share a bed many nights of the week, and that’s all I’ve ever really wanted when it comes to a partner.”

“Speaking of sharing a bed,” she says, “you wanna get out of here?”

“I’ll pay the check. But then I gotta hit the head.”

“Of course you do.”