Look, I lead a charmed life, more or less. I love my job, I eat brunch at least once a week, and the train always just shows up within a minute of me getting to the station. Things are pretty great. I’m not even sure I want a relationship, because would that person just be around all the time? But I want to get married eventually, maybe, and I’ve already slept with all of my friends that I’m going to sleep with, so I’ve been doing the online dating thing.
We asked readers to submit their least romantic stories for our Valentine’s Day issue. To read the other tales of woe and regret, see the rest of our (almost) romance-free ode to Valentine’s Day.
The waiter glared at us after refilling our water glasses for the third time after we had paid the check, so I boxed up my leftovers and we went down the street to a bar. We split dinner, because it’s 2013 and I’m a feminist, but he bought me a beer and a game of Ms. Pac-Man and we talked about his parents in Ohio and a scary book we both read as kids, and I still wasn’t nervous or weird, so when he invited me to his place to play Scrabble I agreed because I thought it was a funny euphemism for sex.
A few days later, I sent him a text to see if he wanted to hang out the following week. And I need you to understand, what I am saying is that I did not treat the text like a goddamn sonnet or consider the subtle difference between “hang out” and “do something” or demand that anyone proofread it for me. I just hit send, without the usual wave of terror and desperate hope that so often accompanies talking to someone I find attractive. I felt like the Buddha.
So, that’s what I mean when I wave my fake cigarette in the air and tell you that.
