I’d finally started online dating. The idea had seemed absurd when I was even a year younger, still certain that I would eventually meet someone naturally, as if the people encountered through dating sites belonged to a different ecosystem or were not entirely human. But recently I’d begun to feel something close to panic. Still, I dreaded the prospect of meeting strangers from the apps at bars and cafés, trying to gauge in the span of an hour whether they might be worth another date, whether they were safe to go home with, whether the total absence of any common interests might feel less estranging with time. I met with two computer engineers and a historian, each a few years older and unable to ask a single question about me, though I offered them many. By my fourth date, with an Australian musician—that was what he called himself, though I suspected that he mostly played the guitar in his flat—I had started to understand that the more I asked, the more they spoke, mistaking my manners for true interest. To pass the time, I made internal bets about how long I could keep him talking, at what point the indulgence might seem strange even to him. But I could also see that he was turned on by my questions; he loved having a chance to speak, no doubt as I would have as well.

After we finished our drinks, the musician suggested wandering around the neighborhood. I knew already that I wouldn’t see him again, but I thought I might kiss him at the end of the evening. As we were reaching my bus stop, he suddenly took my hand and pulled at my arm, twirling me on the pavement. I laughed. It was such a strange gesture, and perhaps also charming; I wasn’t sure.