One time this happened...

Fog from our collective breath condensed on the café windows as I waited for the date I'd spent an hour picking socks to match. My gaze drifted toward the couple arguing hushed voices in the corner – their hands were perfectly entwined, yet their body language screamed for a divorce attorney.

My grandmother had a velvet-padded chair for unwelcome guests, and I found myself wondering if my date would ever fit that description after he offered to critique my haircut during our third conversation online – he'd asked me out before realizing his enthusiasm was actually an awkward way of asking.

Fog had begun seeping in through my office window like a damp ex-wife and suddenly I remembered the girl from the coffee shop who'd stared so intensely at her phone it had started to resemble a small, portable portal. It had been three dates, five conversations - maybe six, and a promise from a friend to help me decipher her cryptic voicemails in exchange for a 30% commission on the first dinner I ever managed to get her to pay for.

My socks are damp with forgotten sweat, stuck to the gym floor as I pace back and forth while waiting for Rachel. Her last text said something about being on time, but that was two hours ago.

My aunt accidentally sent a selfie of me in a bright pink wig to her book club, and three weeks later my blind date for that night texted me about a potential group outing – we hit it off over an uneventful hour of discussing vegan baking.

The day after, I found myself standing near an elevator in my apartment building wearing the same clothes from the night before and a hairnet that was definitely not from the grocery store down the street. It all made sense when I thought about how Alex was a pastry chef, or at least claimed to be, and the way she kept mentioning butter as an aphrodisiac.