Not a meet cute. A modern day dating app match. Two hours of texting and let’s meet. We hit a pub for lunch. Order a pizza, chicken with cheese, two pints. Smokes. My first cigarette, two, three, five. A single day, single date, all and everything. Roaring sexual tension. Your work is fascinating, you take pictures at music festivals. I write. You love that I write. You make travel plans with me. I comply. You ask me if I’m free to go over at yours later. I’ve lied to my mother of my whereabouts and I can’t stretch it any longer. I’m not sure if sex is okay after the first date. But you seem fun. I want to. The world has told me I cannot. I will not be taken seriously. I shouldn’t cave in, not on the first date. I am conflicted, I say no, act pricey and uptight when I want to be loose and shallow. I go home. You tell me I was an energy and you want us to meet again. You could play guitar and I could write songs. Dave and Greta. Could we? I move to another city next week and I don’t like you like that. You ask me out for a punk rock gig. I don’t know what that is. I would have to lie to my mother again. I move away and you tell me you are silly enough to make a trip to another city, for me. I can’t let you. I don’t like you like that. You know? You know. I hate to live with the guilt. There was once a boy who gave me a Begin Again card. You don’t even know it is my favourite movie. We fizzle out. I find myself reading our messages three years later in a city further away from you, wishing it was meet cute.