I never save a guy’s phone number when he texts me until I know that he really matters. This time, I took my hesitance a step further.
I gave him only my first name. Getting to know me more — or just hearing from me ever again — would require showing up for a dinner date in six days. We’d each have no last name, social media account, or phone number to lean on for patchy communication or mindless internet stalking. As random strangers, we were tied together only by a drunken agreement.
I’d had too many “WYD?” messages in my inbox from people I’d probably never speak to again, and I wanted a real connection. I was willing to disconnect from technology for it… for him. I’d be off the grid, so to speak, in Silicon Valley. Ironically, we met at AfroTech, a weekend event promoting technology and innovation. It’s the Bay Area’s biggest function for young Black professionals. Everyone, regardless of industry, comes to town for the parties. That’s what sparked the unconventional idea.
We’d agree on a day, a time, and a location for dinner, without any way of communicating in the meantime.
A few hours before meeting him, I bumped into an old flame — a finance bro whom I’d dated in Salt Lake City. “I’ve been thinking about you” is not what I wanted to hear from this habitual liar. I had to go. Who else from my Blocked Contacts list was in Oakland? More importantly, how much time had I wasted on text threads that eventually got deleted? Men who no longer mattered? I have a stockpile of random fun facts and inside jokes in my mind that will never again be valuable, and I’ve sent more “Good morning” messages than I care to share. It seemed pointless to continue dragging out fruitless conversations with guys who, among having other issues, barely made the time to see me in person. It suddenly seemed pointless to text before a first date. I needed a faster, more efficient method of weeding men out; I needed a drink.
Liquid courage made things interesting. I was dancing freely at the AfroTech party while he watched me from behind. I noticed. When he finally approached, I teased him for staring at me for what felt like an hour. “What’s your number?” he asked after some small talk. I was lit; a light bulb went off. “How spontaneous are you?” I replied. He was curious. I pitched the idea that we remain virtually anonymous before meeting for a first date. We’d agree on a day, a time, and a location for dinner, without any way of communicating in the meantime. If we both showed up, then we’d know that we were mutually invested. If not, then it wasn’t meant to be, and we would have eliminated the needless back-and-forth of texting. He pushed back a little at first, but eventually, he was down.
I pulled out my phone and typed “Meet” in the calendar app. He watched me awkwardly pause. I couldn’t remember his name! “Meet the boy,” I resolved. He laughed, repeated his name, and wrote “Meet the girl” in his phone. We settled on the upcoming Friday, six days from then, at 7:30 p.m. (he saved the time as 6:45 p.m.). We’d reconnect at my favorite restaurant, Burma Love. It was, coincidentally, two blocks from his apartment in San Francisco and 40 minutes from my law school. I’d have an excuse to leave Palo Alto, and he’d have no excuse but to be waiting for me. We promised.
How’d they do things back in the day before cell phones? Date their neighbors, I guess.
It suddenly felt like we were in our own little world. We laughed and danced at the party until I spotted my homeboy in the crowd. Still tipsy, I ran over, beaming. “Where you been?” my homie asked. I shared everything, both bragging and making sure that I wouldn’t get killed. The dude was skeptical: “I wouldn’t go! He don’t know you. And are you even gone remember?” Valid but, like, we had agreed. I anxiously ran back over to my date to confirm that he was serious. He was. I was. It was happening.
This cycle of doubt, hope, and confirmation occurred about four more times until the party was over. My date and I made our final pledge at 2 a.m., when my Uber pulled up. A moment prior, he and my homeboy had met. “She’s crazy, isn’t she?” he said. “Naww, but the idea is crazy,” my homie answered. Crazy or not, the meeting stood. He’d be there.
I woke up later that morning, and I remembered him, but I needed more data points. Was this too stupid to work? Was I actually crazy? I surveyed friends and asked, “Would you go on the date?” My girls thought the whole thing was super-romantic. The guys were mixed. Some were cynically dismissive, and others assured me, “If she was worth it!” There was a chance, and I was clinging to it.
The next morning, I got a text from my homeboy: “Saw your date for Friday. He said he’s not coming lololololol. So my advice wins.” What?! I couldn’t believe it. “He really said he’s not?” I replied. “He said he [likes you] but that’s a weird proposition lol,” I read slowly, taking every word in. Weird? The fact that he couldn’t wait six days to talk to me seemed weirder. How’d they do things back in the day before cell phones? Date their neighbors, I guess. Crushed but not defeated, I consulted my best friend about the dilemma; I still wanted to uphold my word and go. “So even though you know he won’t be there, what are you going to do?” she asked. “Eat,” I replied.
I still wasn’t entirely convinced that he would bail, but I wasn’t entirely calm either. Honestly, I never believed that I wouldn’t talk to him again. He seemed like the kind of person who would stick to his word, so I wasn’t prepared for the wrench. I started digging, a breach to the spirit of the contract. We were supposed to learn about each other from each other — no sleuthing. That’s why we withheld our last names and social media accounts. But I didn’t need that information. My former job as a compliance analyst taught me how to use scant details to track people down. After a few failed googling attempts, I found him. A search for his first name and “Bay Area” led me to his Instagram, Facebook, and LinkedIn pages. I had his whole life story at my fingertips, and I could easily slide into his DMs. I felt myself falling into a vortex of access. I knew too much already. I had to stop.
Digital bonds linger far beyond physical or emotional bonds — they break differently.
That evening, I returned to Oakland to milk AfroTech for the final day. Part of me also just wanted to escape from my own imagination and curiosity. I ended up confiding in a random guy about the scenario: “Why do you think he told me he was coming and my homeboy that he isn’t?” “I’d flex in front of another man too,” the stranger answered, “but I might still go.” This was a nuanced perspective, but I could barely focus on the conversation. On the other side of the room, a friend of mine was cheating. I could see it out of the corner of my eye. An hour earlier, that same friend had confessed to me, “My girl don’t trust me!” She was expected to carry both the trust and the trustworthiness in the relationship—alone. Why? Naturally, I asked my Uber driver about it during the ride home. “My girl didn’t trust me either!” the driver asserted. Ahh, so trust is a woman’s burden. Cool.
I spent the next few days trying to make up my mind about the date. Would I be the girl who didn’t trust? Was he worth it? I was also hyper-aware of my phone’s alerts and messages. A text that read, “In case u didn’t save my #” struck a chord. A birthday notification regarding a lost love was almost spiteful. Thanks, iCloud. Digital bonds linger far beyond physical or emotional bonds — they break differently. I’d never been stood up before, but I’d been ghosted. I imagined that the latter was worse, like driving off a cliff instead of coming to an abrupt stop. Who knew where this situation would take me? Maybe I could ride it out. I dodged Friday plans just in case.
“The things we fear the most have already happened to us,” I repeated over and over to myself on the morning of the date. I had nothing to lose if he didn’t come. No history. No romance. No love. That was the point. If he would abandon me, better sooner than later. I was going. The hardest part was deciding how cute to be. Too much preparation could exacerbate a potential sting, and the plight of a woman is often overlooked. An “I’ll hit you up later” text could warrant a full wardrobe change. And getting ready for a plan that is ultimately canceled is always the worst. Still, I wanted my curls to pop — for me. I washed my hair, shaved, put on makeup, found a cute outfit, and packed my purse—but no overnight bag. I’d brave San Francisco traffic with the hope that he would walk two blocks to the restaurant. Perhaps I was the architect of my own love story.
My heart pounded throughout the entire ride to the city. Not even Summer Walker could calm my nerves — “Love is a losing game.” It was the fourth quarter, and the clock was ticking. I’d walk into the restaurant and look around. That was the play.
He never came. I’m still eating.
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December 02, 2019 at 11:01PM
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Don’t Take My Name or Number—Just Date Me - thebolditalic
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