Chapter Eight
I’m all prepared for my together-separate date with my secret person: I have my app queued up, my phone fully charged, and I’m following instructions laid out in our brief conversation the other day.
I’m dressed for the occasion and I’m heading to the Rose Cafe in downtown.
Once there, I will request a table for one, that’s the “separate” part, and then we’ll drink coffee and text each other, of course, “together.”
My heart leaps a little at the idea of actually talking… er, texting, in real time. I’m also touched by the way that my secret person made this happen. We can still have the mystery of our secret relationship and be together in our separate way.
Of course, when I describe it out loud, it feels weird, but I actually love the premise. And the creativity behind it. It feels like it’s a natural next-step.
Since the cafe is downtown, parking is never nearby but I feel alive as I’m strolling through the quaint shops and restaurants as the sky is darkening and the street lights are coming up on the brick facades.
It’s actually nice, I mean, for a date. I can’t help but think if this was a together-together date, then this stroll would be a nervous march where every detail of the world would be lost to my anxious inward focus.
Instead, I’m taking it all in: The lights of the shop windows.
The pedestrians in various groups together and laughing, often pointing, holding each other.
The string lights over the patio restaurants, the faint clinking of glasses and the hum of conversation.
My heart is light and my phone is ready.
After entering the cafe and navigating the “table for one” stir, which may or may not be imagined, I’m finally sitting at small outdoor table under the gently swaying trees that are wrapped in string lights.
My table has a candle, glowing softly and flickering in the gentle breeze. My phone vibrates, and I flip it over.
The notification box contains a message with the simple words “Hello William.”
“Hello.” I send, and my gut tightens at the asymmetry of this moment without a name. I’m not sure if it actually bothers me, it’s just asymmetrical.
“Thanks for doing this with me,” my screen says.
“I should be thanking you. This has been a lot of fun.”
“Glad to hear.”
“I need to confess something,” I venture.
“Okay. Should I be nervous?”
“I’m glad to not be writing in a journal. I’m really glad to be talking with you instead.”
I wait several heartbeats for a reply. The text bubble is popping like there’s a reply brewing, but it doesn’t come right away.
“Are you not liking the journal?”
I’m typing faster than I thought possible, I don’t want this to be taken incorrectly. “No. I’ve enjoyed every part of the adventure, including the journal. I appreciate when I hear back from you and can learn some things about you.”
“But…”
My heart is pounding in my chest, which seems to be affecting the dexterity of my thumbs.
I’m making typos and auto-correct is having a field day with bad word choices.
“The journal was just,” I start to type the word “lonely” and freeze.
How can I explain this? This is the first date and we’re not even a hundred words in yet and it feels like I need to bare my soul in a text.
Texting the details of my mish-mashed emotions sounds like a really terrible idea.
I delete and start over. “I’m glad to be talking to you instead. ”
“Me too,” the reply comes quickly. “I mean, I’m glad I’m talking to you. But also glad that you are talking to me too.” Before I even finish reading another text pings: “Wow, texting is hard.”
“I have a feeling we can make it work!” I can’t help but smile a genuine smile, the kind of genuine that makes me feel like we are actually in this together.
“I think so too.”
“Can I ask you a question?” I type slowly, feeling the freedom that our texting relationship provides, but also wondering now if it’s possible for me to mess it all up.
“Sure. Ask away.”
“Why do all this?” After clicking send, I read the words again, hoping I haven’t crossed a line.
“You mean the tasks? The adventure?”
“Yes.” I really want to type more. Maybe try to explain that I’m so thankful for the adventure, but also wondering “why me?” Why would some anonymous person pick me for my secret adventures?
Why not just bump into me somewhere and strike up a conversation?
My line of thought fractures into a million paths, so I just rely on my simple “yes” already typed and sent.
“I must confess I was nervous about this question. I guess it makes sense it would be the biggest thing on your mind”
I wait.
“I took a chance.” That’s the answer.
I look up from my phone to think about this. I think what surprises me is that I’m constantly being reminded that my secret person is just a regular person. A person trying to figure out life like the rest of us, just in a mysterious way. The reminder always kindles something warm inside.
“I’m glad you did.” I feel my heart settling on the humanity of the answer and even though I want to know every detail, I feel like I don’t really need more. “I’m glad we could meet at our separate cafes tonight.”
“You inspire me with your willingness to take on the spirit of this adventure. I’ve never done this before and you’re bringing it to life.”
I think about this for a minute, long enough to realize I’m beaming at my phone.
“I’m enjoying the adventure. I’d like to know more about you.”
“Now I’m nervous,” the reply comes.
The host is seating a group of four well-dressed young people nearby and I can’t help but notice the organic way in which they arrange themselves into pairs. Eye contact and smiles are all it takes to communicate among themselves. It’s nice.
I type again: “Are you always this creative and unique in everything you do, or is designing my great adventure something out of the ordinary for you?”
“You mean how many other people have I dragged through town with my devious ways? I love your question. Here’s the answer: You are something special. Which inspired me to do something special. This is new territory for me.”
“How do you know I’m special?” I click send and then realize how funky it sounds.
“You followed my adventure didn’t you?”
“I guess.”
“I can’t think of another person who would even entertain the idea of joining me tonight in our separate cafes. That means a lot to me.”
The words glow too brightly on my screen and I can’t stop blinking.
“Tell me about your cafe,” the next text says. “What’s it like?”
I look around the outdoor patio, taking in a deep breath, relaxing my shoulders. I didn’t realize I had tensed up. “I’m surrounded by people on together-together dates. You know, like the traditional kind.”
“Boring.”
I laugh loudly enough that I’m catching glances.
“Too bad for them. There is one couple who seems to be together separately, though. They haven’t put their phones down since they arrived.” My smile is reflecting back at me in my screen. I just imagine my secret person is smiling, too.
“Also boring. And sad.”
“Maybe. I’m beginning to think that there’s no one right way to be with someone. Like, every person might have their own right way.”
“Maybe the trick is finding someone with a matching ‘right way’.” The reply comes faster than I can process.
“That’s heavy.” I stop typing as a surge of need washes through my body.
The need to be able to say a name. I feel like I’m stuck in sand, glued to the floor.
“Here’s something I need:” I hit send and then begin typing some more.
“I need to be able to call you something. Like a name, but not your name… until you’re ready.
Maybe a codeword or an acronym or something. ”
“This is really important to you?”
“I feel like you and I might be connecting on a real level, but the namelessness feels like a sentiment killer. How about just an initial?”
“Something to write on a card when you send me flowers?”
This makes me chuckle. “Flowers, huh?”
“Yes, flowers.” There’s a pause and then another message: “M.”
The letter seems to blur in and out of focus on my screen. Am I seeing it right?
“That’s what you can write on the card. Nothing formal, just wildflowers please.”
I find myself touching my lips together over and over saying the letter. “So, M… Besides the flowers, what is your ‘right way?’” The chair beneath me is suddenly electrified and I’m struggling to sit still.
“Elaborate schemes, of course.” The next text reads, “Anonymous notes and the occasional personal challenge. Things of that nature.”
The answer makes me sit upright. “I know you can dish it, but can you take it?” I can’t type the words fast enough.
The seconds roll by with no response and then: “I knew you were trouble! Sure I can take it. What’d you have in mind?”
Now the delay is mine. I keep crossing and uncrossing my feet under the table, I’m suddenly wishing for a glass of water, something to wet my lips.
“I’m thinking…” I say. I look around the space searching for ideas and then: “Laugh out loud.”
“What?”
“Look at your screen like you’re seeing something hilarious and laugh so loud and long that people turn to see what’s going on, and maybe think you’re a little crazy.”
“Laugh out loud? That’s the challenge? Maybe you should say something actually hilarious,” the words challenge me on the screen.
“That’d be too easy. You know you’re already smiling! Just turn it into a laugh.”
Seconds tick away with no response. I’m not sure I actually breathe during this time.
“I actually can’t stop smiling, William. But, how would you know I’d actually do it, and not just claim that I did?”
“I trust you, M.” The letters fly across the screen, and then I’m frozen, waiting.
Another delay, this one longer than the last. “Trust is a dangerous thing.”
“Well, you have mine.”
Time slows as my screen glows unchanging.
“Well then, here goes nothing.”