One morning, before I perused the job posts and tried to find something I could apply to, I went to my dating app to see what action there might be. A man “liked” me and he seemed halfway decent. He was a writer, like me, and he played poker, also, like me. We were about the same age. Looked respectable in his profile pics. Ah, why not? I clicked back to start a chat. After a string of basic introductory questions, he asked me if I’d like to meet up for coffee. Sure, why not? I said. He offered to meet in a town that was a little far for me, but a place I liked visiting. All seemed well. And since I had nothing else to do, at least it gave me an opportunity to meet up with a stranger and see if it led to more friendlier territory.

That was Wednesday. Thursday I checked for messages. Nothing. Friday. Nothing. Okay, so he must figure we already have a plan in place. For sure, I’ll hear something on Saturday. Again, nothing.

Ah well, I thought to myself. There’s plenty of other things to occupy my time. Like my yard, for example. Now that the snow melted, all those leaves and sticks I’ve been avoiding all winter revealed themselves to me. As the crocuses and tulips began to poke their pedals and leaves up from the soil, I figured I’d better give them some room to grow. I resigned myself to yard work. Maybe a couple of loads of laundry, too.

I usually rise early, no matter what day of the week it is. Slept in a tiny bit on Sunday. Noticed it was 7:18 am. Rolled over for a minute or two, then got up. Had to attend a board meeting for a local arts group at 10:00 am. Thought I’d squeeze in a bit of exercise beforehand. It was a Zoomer, so I didn’t go crazy to rush around.

Around 8:00 am, my phone buzzed. It was Date Man. “I wrote your number down wrong and obviously you didn’t get my text,” he said. “We’re meeting at 1:00?”

Well. I’ve heard that excuse before. Date Man could be genuine, though. And why bother with the yard when I could do something slightly more entertaining? “Sure. Let me know where and I’ll meet you.”

Date Man changed locations, another town that was even further than the first one. He chose to meet up at the library, mainly because there’s a huge parking lot next to it. Which is fine. For some reason he thought this location would be closer. A simple glance at a map would’ve told him otherwise. No matter. It’s a charming village on the scenic Hudson River, snuggled in by low mountains. Could be a romantic setting!

We meet at the appointed time. Date Man got there early, texting his arrival and location as I drove closer to the town’s library. I rightly figured the man smiling as I got out of my car was him.

Let’s just say my first impression didn’t exactly overwhelm me.

Somehow I’m under the mistaken belief that one should dress nicely to make a good first impression. You haven’t met this person before. You want them to see you put a little effort into your appearance. Choosing a nice top, maybe a sweater if it’s chilly, jeans and decent shoes seems to be a no-brainer. I tame my frizzy curls into a well-behaved wave. Pat on a little makeup to perk up my face.

Date Man wore somewhat aged jogging pants, T-shirt, sneakers. It would be okay if these were new and matched. They didn’t. And while the rugged almost-beard looks great on some guys, Date Man’s looked scraggly. Still, I tried to look past all that. After all, he’s a writer. Lots of artists are like him. Perhaps he’s really, really interesting! He could be sporting a look.

We strolled away from the parking lot. Date Man turns to me and says, “What was your name again?”

Seriously? How could he forget the name of the woman he asked on a date? Sigh. I tell him.

“Ah, that’s right.” He didn’t even seem remotely embarrassed.

He chose no cafe or restaurant ahead of time, leaving that to me. I didn’t mind, really. This town had plenty of options and in no time we found a place.

After agreeing over sharing a salad and a wood-fired oven margarita pizza, we settled into what could possibly pass for conversation. It started off okay, but as the moments slid by, it grew stilted and slow. Not that I wasn’t trying. He just didn’t have much to discuss. About anything.

I asked about his kids (all remarkable achievers), what he writes about these days (nonfiction), how he came to playing poker (has been doing it since he was a kid), his use of AI at his job, favorite places that he’s traveled to, and a whole bunch of other topics that normally would elicit a response. Sure, he spoke a few sentences here and there, and we even grew a bit animated when I told him I dropped the literary agent I had because she did absolutely nothing for me. He experienced nearly the same thing with his. But the words ceased flowing as the food slowly disappeared, as if the pizza held a magic charm to scintillating conversation.

Right then, I knew it wasn’t going to work. So when he asked me about why I was single, I gave him the unvarnished truth. My husband left me for a younger woman, after all the challenges I’d experienced with his ex-wife, going to court so we could see his kids after his she tried to stop him from doing so, attending to his health after a string of surgeries, dealing with the slow, agonizing death of his father from cancer, holding him up after his business partner stole from their business and then sued him for no good reason. I added, for good measure, how after my husband’s departure from our marriage I lost my job, my parents, my home and just about everything else, and the only job I could get was a sales associate at Phipp’s, and how I had to start all over again when I should be planning my golden years. And now, I lost my job again.

Rehashing my past was cathartic. Every now and again when I speak of it, I remind myself how far I’ve come, even if at the time it seems nowhere at all. Besides, it was pretty obvious I’d never see this guy again. Sharing my past misadventures with him cemented that. There was zero chemistry between us. Of all the dates I’ve been on, this really was the worst. Sure, the others didn’t work out either, but at least the guys had something to say. We had what could pass for conversation. This time, it was merely words spilling out of mouths that weren’t otherwise occupied by food.

Date Man paid the check and we headed toward our cars. “It was nice to meet you,” he said.

“Same,” I replied.

There was no talk of a future date, or anything at all. Whew!

Driving home, I began to laugh. Ironically, the song, “Sexy To Someone” by Clairo comes on the radio, singing about trying to find someone who wants to date her. Perfect background music for my thoughts. It felt absurd, all these dates that wind up in the trash heap. Guys I like never get back to me, disappearing into the ether. And now, guys I’d rather avoid feel the same about me. Still, I’m hoping that one day there will be someone to whom I’ll be sexy. That they’ll stick around.

And that they’ll like me as much as like them, too.