COFFEE GRINDS

Got up relatively early this morning, walked a small stretch of the Vancouver seawall and wound up in a favorite bakery, enjoying a scone while writing. It’s a good start. Once I pick up my Sunday New York Times, chances of writing become slim. I become consumed.

I’m a writer with ADD. It’s a self-diagnosis. I go in short spurts, flitting from café to café. I do love a strong cup of coffee and the bustle of activity helps me feel as though I have company while working alone. (The people watching amuses, too. No telling when or how something I observe or overhear will find its way into a manuscript.)

But cafés are not just my writing hangouts. They are where I typically meet guys for that first, and usually final, meet-and-greet after an initial online dating site connection. This morning’s spot is no exception. I’ve only been at this location of the local bakery chain once, perhaps three years ago. Maybe four. Time flies when you’re working your way through the online parade of gay men professing to want a relationship. (Really, I’m not so sure what they want anymore.)

At this location, I chatted with Steve, an avid marathon runner. He showed up in running gear. No post-run sweaty smell. Perhaps he just wanted to be properly attired in case he needed to make an emergency exit. It was one of those puzzling dates—nothing overtly wrong, but something not quite right. Nice guy, but no real connection despite having surface things in common.

He didn’t flee during coffee. Instead, he escaped a week later. He messaged me to say he’d enjoyed our chat but had accepted a job in Edmonton. People don’t usually leave Vancouver for Edmonton. I blame myself. (Coincidentally, I just took a writing break and peeked at OkCupid to see who had visited my profile of late. No joke, a certain Steve in Edmonton. What timing! Apparently, things are no rosier in the land of black flies.)

It’s funny to have moldy coffee grinds from past dates all over the city. At some point business owners will appeal to city council to ban me from all establishments. Then I’ll have to learn to write on park benches or—here’s a novel idea—from my own home.

For now, I’ll try to try to push aside foggy memories of fizzled firsts and appreciate the ambience as I continue to write in dating graveyards.

LITTLE THINGS, BIG THINGS

I didn’t notice him when I walked in. Me first? How had I beaten him after I’d dizzied myself, circling multiple times in search of a parking spot? I was three minutes late, but from our emails, I sensed Philip was a punctual guy. Cold feet? It happens.

Just after 6 p.m., an awkward time for coffee. Would it be weird if I grazed on a small salad? Being a guy who probably needs glasses but still doesn’t have a pair, I crouched over the display case and squinted at the labels of the different deli creations. Undoubtedly not a great pose and a flagrant violation of First Date Wait whereby I should have a smile Vaselined on my face, keep the stomach sucked in and look cool and confident standing in a public eatery alone. Mid-crouch/squint, I realized someone was suddenly standing beside me. Philip.

“I bought you a coffee,” he said and I followed him to a table at the far end of the bakery. “Decaf,” he explained. Perfect! Beside my latté was a small plate with biscotti.

I’d bought coffee for some guys on first dates, but I can’t recall another man treating me. Little things—what should be a basic in being a gentleman—make strong first impressions. I sat down and noticed Philip wore a perfectly pressed button down shirt. He’d given this meeting some thought, something that should have been evident when he texted me fifteen minutes ahead of time: “Looking forward to meeting you.”

A class act. A refreshing change.

I became somewhat alarmed when he started talking: rapid pace, too much dwelling on a single topic, not enough back and forth. Please no déjà-vu. I’ve endured enough self-absorbed blowhards. Thankfully, it was just nervous energy. Toward the end of the date, as he joined me while I walked my dog along the seawall, I learned that I was his first date since he’d ended a ten-year relationship in December. Okay, that triggers a different déjà-vu. Dating freshly dumped guys doesn’t work out.

But I can ignore the warning signs. Heck, I’d ignored the nuts—which I hate—in the biscotti and graciously eaten the whole thing. I can ignore a lot when a guy leads with a latté-in-waiting.

Not a perfect first date, but there is definitely potential. On paper, we’re a good match. He’s 46, I’m 47. He has three degrees, I have three degrees. He’s incredibly fit and a marathon runner and, well, I try and I’m fitter than 95% of the men my age. Philip is worth a second date at least.

But then, as my dog tangled himself in a scraggly bush and I went back to my sexy crouching/sprinting pose, Philip revealed his own snag. “I got a job offer two days ago. In Edmonton.”

Of course he did. This was the business trip he’d mentioned in our exchange of messages. I’d made a series of lightly disparaging comments about the city—it’s so easy—in an attempt at humor. “I have to decide by Monday,” he said, sounding apologetic and genuinely conflicted.

Potential, yes. But I’m not the kind of guy you consider passing up a chance to move to Edmonton for. I mean, really, it’s Edmonton! If I’d known ninety minutes earlier, I’d have left the biscotti untouched, lied and mumbled something about anaphylaxis. And yet I’m glad I didn’t know. After dozens of go-nowhere coffee dates, that wonderful first impression proved restorative. There are genuinely nice single men out there still. Surely they don’t all move to Edmonton.