I went on a date with somebody a few months ago who texted me a few days later, New Years Eve, to say that she’d just seen my brother on Instagram and she wanted to know if he was single.
She was twenty years old and small and religious. My brother is a thirty-year-old bodybuilder, sleeved in tattoos, 200-odd pounds of muscle and blasphemy.
She followed it quickly with a text saying, “That was awkward of me to ask, right?”
I looked at her text and sighed and wasn’t amused and put my phone away.
This was January.
But it’s the last morning in April and I just hit a lull in my workload and picked up my coffee and crossed my legs and looked out the window and remembered those texts and I thought about dating, what a joyously awkward nightmare the whole thing is, and I thought of where that woman is now (in a relationship, working) and of where I am and of all that’s changed and all that hasn’t and for some reason start smiling wide.
“Tragedy plus time,” they say. Essence of comedy.