Details I Remember

· Tango girl. We did not.

· Rubenesque opera singer with octagon lenses and glittering red frames.

· The tall girl who drew nuclear missiles on napkins and then threw them at me while making cute sound effects.

· One night stand, but apparently last night.

· Candlelight, small hands and dark, hopeful eyes.

· Sophia: The Russian who wouldn’t have me.

· “Oh, you rent.”

· After three drinks, confessed that she just wasn’t ready to date.

· Road bike, overweight, mini skirt.

· In talks to revamp her Rugby career.

· The amazing blond who swirled her wine and asked, without irony, where all the good men had gone.

· She disappears. I disappear.

· Proudly announced that the best sex she ever had occurred in India while in the presence of an uncaged cobra.

· At least forty pounds heavier and five years older.

· “You just don’t seem like a guy I’d want to fuck.”

· A watched phone doesn’t text.

· She removed her clothes and said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting ready to go to bed.”

· Suddenly and rapidly vacated my apartment after glancing at an incoming text.

· More acne than her best picture, fewer double chins than her worst.

· She deleted me from her contacts, while I watched.

· Was that even a date?

· Not attractive enough. Definitely would have been good for me.

· She was looking for someone to fix her oven. Really wish I knew how to fix ovens.

· Two years clean, relapsed on our date.

· Still in love with a married man.

· Didn’t notice the prosthetic leg until we compared our sock game.

· Prone on floor, sweating, convulsing, actually too sick to return a promising follow-up text.

· “You talk like you’re gay. And maybe that’s hot.”

· My phone rings. I stare in disbelief.

· What does it take, to erase someone completely?

· Back home, touching a screen instead of a person.