For weeks, his messages made me smirk. The buzz of the nightly what’s app notification became a highly anticipated part of my bedtime routine. I didn’t know I could fall into infatuation over the likes of a dating app conversation, but I guess the serendipity of a swipe, or a like, is the meet cute of the modern world. I created an idea of him. I had never grown so fond of an idea before. Maybe in middle school when my world was plastered with posters of Justin Bieber, but this was different. There was a charming and responsive man sitting at the other end of my imagination. And despite a lifetime of conditioning to be wary of strangers on the internet, and the never-ending tales of dating app faux pas, I was allowing myself this flight of fancy. I was in Europe after all.
Two weeks later, and hundreds of green icons in-between, we met on the river. He loved the river. He wore a grey suit with a navy-blue tie. His oversized gym bag sat under a small outdoor table. He had come straight from work. He stood nervously and greeted me quickly. His eye contact was wondering. The smart wit and attentive nature I had come to expect in his messages, came in stark contrast to the cold energy I undeniable felt in those first few moments. I was thrown off guard by his sardonic sarcasm and narcissistic rants. It was as if every time a thought bubble appeared over my head; I was inundated with notifications about his gym routine. I began to question the serendipity of an online match, solemnly thinking this might have been be a swipe left after all. It had been only weeks since I moved to London for University. I had no plans to settle on my Noting Hill romance this early in the semester.
But, I love first dates. They are the only guaranteed time you get to meet someone new with infinite ideas of what if at the other end. The possibilities have no bounds. There is only curiosity. It either clicks or it is a story to tell friends later. So, I leaned back in my chair, choked down some beer, and threw some sarcasm back his way. The sly comments and eye rolls that I have been giving in New York City bars since I was 16 sat in my back pocket, patiently waiting for moments like these.
“Another round?”
“Why not?”
He came back to the table with two more pints. I hate beer but since I moved to London, I had been pretending to like it. After my first pub experience where I tried to order a spicy margarita and was practically escorted out, I have been forcing myself to drink pints or G&Ts. An attempt to assimilate. Realistically, this make believe only lasted about another week before I was once again the groveling American asking for tequila. This, however, was not the time for that. As I threw a jeopardy board of questions his way, he relaxed. His words slowed. His shoulders lowered.
As I let go of my romcom fantasy, I had a monumental shift in attitude. I was unfiltered, less worried about impressing the handsome boy at the other end of the table, because on drink one I thought that our first date was to be our last. I was in the moment rather than in my head. A rarity for me. Maybe it was the booze, or maybe I was now at ease. Regardless, he rose to the occasion. He became easy to banter with. He played on both sides of a joke. Over our second drink, I began to re-evaluate: I turned the initial period into an ellipsis. I began to catch a glimpse of the Hugh Grant esque Cambridge grad I imagined him to be online.
We walked along the river and arrived at Shakespeare Globe. This aimless stroll was not aimless at all. He had mapped out an entire pub crawl. He had planned our night in accordance with the things we spoke about and spots he wanted me to see.
By the time we reached our final destination, it was so late they had closed. In a blink, we had spent five hours together. We walked along the river in mutual silence, soaking in the evening. It was a silence that felt oddly comfortable. A silence that felt familiar even though we had just met. I was lost in the moment, swarming with a dopamine rush greater than that of a million texts. A bus zoomed by, or we passed a loud crowd, I don’t remember exactly what, but something brought our attention back to reality. He decided to walk, and I hailed a cab.
I wasn’t even a block away when my phone buzzed, “I should have said this in person, but I got awkward. I would love to see you again.”
By the time I got home I was intoxicated. I practically spun into my flat singing tales of romance. I poured a huge bowl of granola and gushed to my roommate. No catfish had been caught; his reality actually made my fantasy more charming.
Plans quickly developed and a date was set for that Sunday. The meeting place was the National Portrait gallery. I love art, he loved humoring my fascination. He came back at my pontifications with both snark and incredible insight. This was to be the first of many museum visits.
We migrated to a nearby hotel for tea. As we sat in the lounge, the manufactured ambiance changed three times. Lighting cues were the only sign that time didn’t cease to exist with him, but a clear indication that we had overstayed our welcome. We decided to walk, but London decided to rain. My blown-out hair now in its true state of disarray while his became perfectly floppy. We ducked into the tube, riding the central line nose to nose until Bank Station. He smirked. He looked away. I blushed. I looked away.
We didn’t kiss until our third date. Coming from the hookup culture of American universities, I read his chivalry as hesitancy. Physicality was the way the frat boys around me had always expressed their interest. Under an archway in Covent Garden he finally leaned in. A moment preceded by emotional intimacy and surrounded by a foundation of understanding.
There were two months of straight bliss. Coffee for me, tea for him. Museum visits and football games. We exchanged articles and thoughts. Pushing each other out of our comfort zones, yet at ease in this exploration together. He listened, he paid attention. His compliments always specific. His charm only grew. I was seen, but more importantly I was heard. We explored different areas of London. Dinners and events intermingled our respective friends. My fashion school dormmates, his finance colleagues. This inevitably transitioned to sleepovers and slow weekend mornings. Spending Thursday night to Sunday together, only separating for work or class. Most moments, this new life felt like a fantasy come to fruition.
In March, I went to Paris for a week and he was called to Malta on work. Our nightly messages persisted. They evolved from memes and sly flirtation, to sharing our days and concerns. The world was changing around us. It was palpable. It was confusing. My news updates became inescapable. Each minute buzzed with alerts about the ominous and unknown Corona Virus. This convoluted and consuming stream of information turning into a digital nightmare. Yet, while most of what you read online is heresy, people were dying all around us. That’s the thing with reality, circumstances come unforeseen.
Within a week of these trips, the job I had always imagined working, the classes I had petitioned to take, and the life I had started to create were threatened and disappearing into the swirl of fear and unknown brought by Covid-19.
That Thursday, we had a date set. That morning my university announced it was shutting down, and borders began to close. I had a flight booked. New York and whatever that now meant awaited. We met at the pub and the second we locked eyes I began to cry. He joked, “What are these people thinking I did to you?”, I laughed. I cried again. We went back to his flat and he held me, wiping my tears, processing with me.
That Sunday he came over for a final goodbye. My apartment was packed, my flight the next morning. I didn’t have any tears left to cry, and for once no words to speak. We just lay there, basking in the silence and confusion that now consumed us.
We walked down from my fourth-floor walkup together for a final time. We kissed, “Claire, our time together has been a movie.”
And just like that he left.
I sat in the airport lounge; my What’s App buzzed. A goodbye, a thank you, a letter of admiration that he couldn’t find the words for the day before. It came with seeming finality. I sat in the airport lounge sobbing on the phone to my therapist. I had become uncomfortably comfortable with crying in public. There were tears at pubs, the late-night falafel joint, the tube, and now the airport (and yes, the plane). I was not just saying goodbye to London, but the comfortable world I had grown up in. Goodbye to mapped out visions of the future. Goodbye to love before ‘I love you.’
Things escalated quickly. Faces are now masked. Vegetables are scrubbed with soap. Hugs are a rarity. I can go a full week without putting shoes on. But this new life, a normal with no normalcy, is not one I experience in isolation. Even from thousands of miles apart, there is synchronicity in our realities.
Within a day of landing, I received pictures and updates on the house plants I left in his care. They now have names and evidently siblings. Our messages didn’t stop, they turned into video chats. “Four weddings and a zoom call” showed up in my email inbox last week. 4:30 my time, 9:30 his. Some days, I am angry. I feel robbed of experiences. Of long walks. Of morning cuddles. Others, I believe our timing was perfect. This unprecedented moment has allowed this romance not to be momentary. No one can be together, but we don’t need to be apart. The internet holds great promise while hiding so much of the truth. In many ways, this relationship allows for a reprieve from the current state of affairs back into the life we lived and began to envision. Once again, an idea behind the glass of my IPhone, but this time not a question online, a rare but definitive answer.
Thoughts, Comments, Concerns 