In the past I had approached dating with the typical fervor of an addict. I’d worked independently to construct the scaffolding of a relationship, then waited for the man I was seeing to step into the blank space I’d retained in his form. Inevitably, he would either balk at the role I’d assigned him, or accede to my formidable will, at which point I’d realize I didn’t really want him as my boyfriend anyway. With Sam, I resolved to do nothing. I would root myself in the present moment, accepting the man before me without judgment. I allowed Sam to set the pace of our dating, waiting for him to initiate contact and propose when we should hang out next.

On our third date, I invited him back to my apartment after dinner, and we had sex. Sam handled my body thoughtfully, like a new pair of shoes he would break in and wear often. It was not mind-blowing, but early sex rarely was. It wasn’t horrifyingly bad, and in this I glimpsed limitless potential. He was careful with his weight and with where he placed his knees. I liked how, as he hovered his body above mine, he cupped the side of my face in his hand.