I went on a date.

We talked for a couple hours. He was nice. We talked about all of the things I like to talk about- books, family, god, travel. He told me about an author he loved, who was a linguist, and why that made his books more interesting. I thought it was fascinating. He was smart, and funny, had a good job, good friends, and a good relationship with his family.

He interrupted. Often. He was very interested in talking and sharing what he knew. He was very interested in making me laugh. I could tell, when I laughed he felt good.

I got that familiar feeling. The one where I’m not really being seen. Not really heard. My body knows that feeling, when men don’t really see me but command being seen themselves. Invisible right in front of his eyes. It was a kind of lonely I’ve felt before.

He asks for another date. I used to get excited by this. I made him feel good. Maybe he can see what a good partner I’d be. How sweet and smart I am. I used to feel excited that a man was choosing me.

He is surprised when I decline. I am relieved when I decline.

After the date I return to the most peaceful home I’ve ever known. I return to my book. My yoga mat. My gigantic bed that I sleep in alone. It is pure luxury. I get a call from a friend with an invitation to dunk in the river. I research the trips I intend to take again. I want to see Nepal. I want to see India. I want to see the arctic. I want to drink the water and smell the earth in these places. So I will. I bought myself flowers recently. They are still so pretty.