That was the moment she knew she was in far over her head, his eyes straight ahead, almost through her. She felt invaded, brown orbs under heavy orange lights in the bar. She cleared her throat and he opened his mouth to ask her the simplest of questions, one she didn’t have the answer to. “What is it that you want to be when you grow up?” Barring the fact that she was in her late thirties, that she had already traveled to five continents, held steady jobs, and had been in several long-term relationships, the question made her skin crawl. She couldn’t help herself thinking that he was looking down on her, this older man she had been set up with through a friend, though she didn’t know how much older. 

The evening had started just like most other ones. A blind date only to a degree: she had been given his name and his online bio from the business he had started. She wasn’t sure what information was given to him about her, but she trusted the mutual friend who had recommended the casual meet up. A cocktail after work on a Tuesday afternoon. The lights were dim in the winter, the sun already nestling into the horizon at 4:25 when she opened the door to the bar in midtown. 

She unbuttoned her coat, the warmth of the bar against the sting of her cheeks and nose. Glasses clattered, the candles placed neatly on the edges of each table glowed and she looked up to see the tall man in front of her, his head square between his shoulders. He didn’t lean one way or another, his light blue heavy button-down shirt tucked into his chinos, and black tennis shoes gave off a very casual air without looking unprofessional. His graying hair was parted to the left, thin framed, round wire glasses sat high on the bridge of his nose. He was already holding a whiskey cocktail. She was impressed that he recognized her, the maitre’d slipping the coat off her right shoulder as she clutched her handbag in her left hand, tingling from the wintery chill. He leaned forward, an imperceptible bow to greet her. She leaned forward and said hello, his body already halfway turned to guide her to the table he’d been sitting at. She walked behind him and he pointed to the empty chair, his wallet and phone stacked near the candle, its flame flickering against the background of the rose colored glass jar. 

All of the usual niceties were discovered through the evening, basic information about her upbringing, how she landed in the city, and what she did for fun. They spoke only briefly about him, every time she would pose a question, a short sentence that gave just enough information about his life but not enough to learn anything came out. “The outskirts of D.C.” or “I find myself on the golf course a handful of times a year” were phrases muttered between long sips from the whiskey glass that never seemed to empty. Maybe he wasn’t drinking anything at all.

She drank her cabernet and did her best not to fold her hands over her chest, to sit back in her chair and bring her head back as if she hadn’t been hunched over the computer screen all day, creating designs for her clients. And then the question came out of nowhere. As if it silenced the whole bar, she heard only ringing in her ears, watching the quiet mouthing of conversations around her. His eyes narrowed, his brow hardly furrowing. She looked up at him, picked up her wine glass and exhaled deeply into the air between them. 

“I want to be happy.” The sound came back, her shoulders dropping back. She turned her head to the side and looked up at the waiter standing next to her, the wine bottle in his hand. She lifted her glass and smiled at him from the corner of her mouth, tasting the fruit left along her tongue. He said nothing, his chest moving up and down with each breath. “Let’s talk about you now.”