Fornikate

I was grabbing lunch with my friend a few days ago at work. We were catching up on life, complaining about co-workers, and the fact that we simply don’t get paid enough for this shit. Then she brought up a recent guy she’d gone out with. He was actually someone we met together on a night out.

I first noticed him standing by the DJ booth, playing a güiro. He wasn’t exactly the type to steal the spotlight, but he was cute enough. He had a Yankees cap pulled low over his eyes, tufts of curls poking out the sides, and the faint shadow of what I’m sure could grow into a mean beard. He had that boy-next-door look paired with a quiet ease, the kind of guy or maybe even friend who you don’t notice right away, but realize you could’ve loved him all along. 

I pointed him out to my friend.

He ended up tagging along with us the rest of that night, and they hit it off. He drove her home, they kissed goodnight, and a few days later he reached out to plan a date.

For their first date, he took her to brunch—nothing too fancy, just easy and fun. After mimosas and pancakes, they rolled into happy hour, laughing like they hadn’t just met. What was supposed to be a couple of drinks turned into a walk through the city, the kind of meandering that makes you forget where you’re headed. Music spilled out from somewhere, and he grabbed her hand, pulling her into the bar. They danced for a moment, tipsy and grinning, and neither of them wanted the night to end. So they didn’t. One stop bled into the next until the whole day stretched into one long date, and then eventually into the night.

When she told me this, I thought it sounded magical. That maybe my friend had stumbled on that rare New York City find… a nice guy. You can imagine my surprise at lunch when she told me he had ghosted her.

They’d had this wonderful date. He told her how much fun he’d had, texted her for a week afterward, even floated the idea of meeting up again—but always in that vague, non-committal way. And then, slowly, the messages just petered out.

We sat there together, bemused, and as women do, launched into a full-scale analysis of what happened, why he’d do that, and why on earth he couldn’t have the decency to just say he wasn’t interested. We unpacked the details of her date and his text messages until the lunch hour was up and kept the debate going all the way to the elevator.

All the while, I couldn’t stop thinking about a message burning a hole in my own pocket:

“Seems like you’re not interested—thought we were a good match but guess not. Best of luck!”

When I’d gotten that message, my heart sank a bit. I had gone on a date with this guy earlier in the week and really didn’t connect. Truthfully, he was never my type to begin with—just someone I was trying on.

He was so eager the whole date, but the more he spoke, the more the feeling settled in: I want to go home. He ordered another drink, but I kept glancing at the door. He was sweet, earnest, and trying so hard, and somehow that made me feel even guiltier for not feeling anything back.

I thanked him for the wine, kissed him goodnight, and hopped on my train home. When he reached out about a second date, I asked for a rain check. When he followed up again, I ignored him. I rationalized it—telling myself it had only been one date, and that maybe he felt the lack of spark too.

But then I received that last message, and I felt like such an asshole. Seeing how my friend had twisted herself in circles trying to figure out why her “perfect” date fizzled out made me realize something.

In a dating scene where ghosting has become so common, have we lost the ability to just be honest with each other? To give closure, even when it’s uncomfortable? To say, simply, “I had a nice time, but I don’t see this going further” without it feeling like a confrontation?

We dress ghosting up in excuses—he was too much, she wouldn’t care, they’ll get the hint—but the truth is simpler: it’s about dodging responsibility. And maybe it’s time we start pushing back against it, one uncomfortable truth at a time.