Nice & Simple

A date on February 13th. With someone totally new.

What was Clara thinking?

It had been years since she’d been in a long-term relationship. Of course, there were a few flings that had seemed promising here and there, but nothing had gone past the two month mark since she and Greg had broken up. And that was more than a half-decade ago. Now, with the anxiety of spending another Valentine’s Day alone hanging over her, she knew she’d overthink things and put too much pressure on herself and her date, a man named Patrick, to make it all work.

And here he came now into the coffee shop.

She waved, and he came over. Together they went and ordered their drinks before finding a table, where they settled down and fell almost immediately into an awkward silence.

Quick, Clara, say something! ANYTHING! Clara thought.

“Umm, I like your sweatshirt,” she said.

“Oh,” Patrick said, looking down at it. “Thanks.”

And, the more Clara thought about it, the more she really did like the sweatshirt. Maybe not for what it was, but for what it wasn’t. It looked like a straightforward, comfy fleece pullover hoodie. And on it the chest: nothing. No brand name, no band name, no logo for a sports team, no cheeky slogan, no text or images of any kind.

And how could Clara not be refreshed by this?

The rigamarole of modern dating left her exhausted. She spent so much time crafting her profile for the various apps she was on that it had begun to seem like an exercise in futility. What’s more, she herself had started to feel less like a person and more like a product or a category. She heard a new song or saw a trailer for a new show, and she didn’t say, “I like this,” or “I want to watch that,” or “Not for me.” She considered instead how it could accentuate or clash with the type of person she wanted strangers to think she might be.

And here came Patrick, not beholden to anyone. With him, Clara thought, she could finally be free. They could watch what they wanted to watch, listen to what they wanted to listen to, read whatever books they liked. Maybe their whims would overlap with whatever had captured the culture’s collective interest, or maybe they wouldn’t. It didn’t matter. And everyone would admire them for that: their free-spirited approach to content consumption.

And when eventually they got married, they would have big blow-out arguments with their parents, because, of course, there would be expectations of them, but they would want to do things their own way. “You can’t have a wedding at a mini golf course!” she imagined her future mother-in-law saying. “No, Mom,” Patrick would respond, defiantly. “You couldn’t. But Clara and I? We’re quirky. We play by our own rules and dance to the beat of our own drummer. Your expectations mean nothing to us.” And his mother would say, “If you don’t marry in a church, you can say good-bye to your inheritance.” And Patrick would say, without a moment of hesitation, “That’s fine by me. For I’d rather be poor but rich with love than rich but creatively stifled.” And then, the day of the wedding, when they asked for people to speak now or forever hold their peace, someone would scream, “Wait!” And it would be his mother. But she wouldn’t want to stop things. She’d want to apologize and reassure him that she appreciated his and Clara’s bond and wished she could’ve experienced love like that in her marriage and–

“Yeah, I got it on a deal site I like,” Patrick went on, pulling Clara away from her reverie. “It’s pretty nice, I think, even though there’s nothing on it.”

“Oh,” Clara said. “Sure.”

“It was a two-pack,” Patrick said. “I mean, the other one would be pretty bulky on you, but it might be comfortable to wear around your apartment or whatever. It’s out in my car. Do you… want it?”

“I do,” said Clara, dreamily.