I’m driving down Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Los Angeles, listening to Matt’s proposal over my car speaker, my eyes blurry from crying.
“What would you say to one final date?” he asks.
He had broken off our seven-month relationship the day before, revealing he had never developed “strong romantic feelings” for me. Brutal. “Could we still hang out as friends?” he had asked through tears. “I need you.”
Yesterday I was stoic. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me, you don’t get the pleasure of my company,” I had said. It was the kind of line a Kerry Washington character delivers.
Now, as I take a turn too fast, I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. I agree to one final date. This could be one last chance to change his mind.
I had felt “strong romantic feelings” from the moment Matt had let me cut in front of him at the water station at 4100 Bar.
“What a gentleman,” I remarked.
“I’m from the South,” he replied, proudly adjusting his hat.
When he continued the conversation outside, I tried to shake him, sure there was some sort of mistake. But he trailed me like a duckling. Finally, he suggested we make out. I, very much out of character, agreed.
While I tried to sneak out the next morning, he proposed we get brunch. Somehow, we were both reading Bob Odenkirk’s memoir and had the same favorite TV show, “Fleabag.” And we were both in our 30s, balancing inconsistent comedy work with day jobs.
We spent our early days saying yes to everything — impromptu concerts, long walks to Echo Park Lake, Arts District bar-hopping — until it felt strange to be alone again. In our first month of dating, I unknowingly gave him COVID-19. We spent a week straight in bed together recovering and bingeing “Yellowjackets.”
But as time went on, Matt was cagey around his phone and reluctant to call me his girlfriend. When I told him I loved him one morning, he said he needed more time, sending me crying into the kitchen in my underwear. Finally, at the end of January, he broke it all off.
I don’t tell anyone about the final date or my plan to win him back. I know it’s not a good idea — and I know I’m going to do it anyway. I will be the easy, breezy dream date.
Matt knocks at my apartment. Instead of meeting him at the door with an embrace like usual, I casually yell from the kitchen, “It’s open!” I’m making guacamole, wearing winged black eyeliner and Utah curls, trying to steady my hands.
“Are we going to be able to have fun tonight?” he asks.
“We have to treat it like ‘The Purge,’” I say. “We can say or do anything we want … except talk about the fact that we are broken up.”
He nods. “Deal.”
We decide to walk to the Grove. It was our move: a 20-minute stroll to the mall to catch a movie. He holds my hand on the way, more tenderly than he ever did while we were together. As we wait for the light to change, he stares at my face like he’s trying to memorize it.
“My plan is working!” I think. I can’t help but smile.
As we walk down the cobblestone street of the Grove, Matt mentions that he is looking forward to meeting people at his best friend’s wedding. It was an invite I was hoping for but never got. I picture him in a tux laughing with a beautiful girl on the dance floor, of course.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, turning back toward home.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the movie.”
At the AMC bar, Matt orders a beer. I choose the “Love Potion,” noted on the chalkboard sign as an early Valentine’s Day special.
The bartender hesitates. “I’m supposed to be closed.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just have the beer.” I’ll take what I can get.
We share a giant tub of popcorn, stealing kisses throughout the previews. We must look like the type of couple that would inspire envy, not one in the process of saying goodbye.
On the walk home, we duck into the Kibitz Room, the dive bar off Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue.
“We just broke up!” we announce as we slide onto our barstools. Cheers erupt. Someone sends over shots.
“To your breakup!”
A few drinks in, I’m kissing Matt’s cheek, telling him I’ll never be able to look at another man. That I’m going to a nunnery. I tell him I love him. For the first time, he tells me he loves me too.
The woman sitting next to me leans close. “You’re not going to break up, are you?” I smile. “Classic,” she says.
A live band of middle-aged men begins jamming to an endless chorus of, “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.” I grab a string of balloons and wrap them around Matt, spinning him in circles on the dance floor. “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.”
We fall out of the bar into the quiet evening. “Wasn’t that crazy they were playing that song?” I ask.
“What song?” he replies.
“That Rolling Stones song,” I say.
“I didn’t notice.”
He stays the night. We hold onto each other like he’s headed off to war. As I drift off to sleep, I think, “If these are not strong romantic feelings, I have no idea what is.”
The next morning, we decide to watch “Tommy Boy.” He hands me a cup of coffee and settles onto the couch, putting his feet up on the ottoman. He is calm, no longer tearful. Whatever urgency he felt the night before is gone.
“Do you want to cuddle until I have to go?” he asks.
I sit up. “You’re leaving? For good?”
But he’s already on his phone, getting ready for what’s next.
I’ve since blocked his number. I’m mostly living the self-fulfilling prophecy of the nunnery, though I have recently made a Bumble profile.
Sometimes I think of that night and the way I was convinced that if I got everything right, if the night felt like us at our best, it might unlock the same passion in him I felt so strongly. But by morning, nothing had changed. I postponed my grief for a night, but it was waiting for me at the door.
My new Bumble profile includes the prompt, “Describe your perfect date.”
“A walk to the Grove, a movie over a shared tub of popcorn, and a stop at the Kibitz Room on the way home.”
The author is a staff writer on the Apple TV show “Platonic.” She lives in West Hollywood. She’s on Instagram: @reeshmeese.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
I’m driving down Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Los Angeles, listening to Matt’s proposal over my car speaker, my eyes blurry from crying.
“What would you say to one final date?” he asks.
He had broken off our seven-month relationship the day before, revealing he had never developed “strong romantic feelings” for me. Brutal. “Could we still hang out as friends?” he had asked through tears. “I need you.”
Yesterday I was stoic. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me, you don’t get the pleasure of my company,” I had said. It was the kind of line a Kerry Washington character delivers.
Now, as I take a turn too fast, I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. I agree to one final date. This could be one last chance to change his mind.
I had felt “strong romantic feelings” from the moment Matt had let me cut in front of him at the water station at 4100 Bar.
“What a gentleman,” I remarked.
“I’m from the South,” he replied, proudly adjusting his hat.
When he continued the conversation outside, I tried to shake him, sure there was some sort of mistake. But he trailed me like a duckling. Finally, he suggested we make out. I, very much out of character, agreed.
While I tried to sneak out the next morning, he proposed we get brunch. Somehow, we were both reading Bob Odenkirk’s memoir and had the same favorite TV show, “Fleabag.” And we were both in our 30s, balancing inconsistent comedy work with day jobs.
We spent our early days saying yes to everything — impromptu concerts, long walks to Echo Park Lake, Arts District bar-hopping — until it felt strange to be alone again. In our first month of dating, I unknowingly gave him COVID-19. We spent a week straight in bed together recovering and bingeing “Yellowjackets.”
But as time went on, Matt was cagey around his phone and reluctant to call me his girlfriend. When I told him I loved him one morning, he said he needed more time, sending me crying into the kitchen in my underwear. Finally, at the end of January, he broke it all off.
I don’t tell anyone about the final date or my plan to win him back. I know it’s not a good idea — and I know I’m going to do it anyway. I will be the easy, breezy dream date.
Matt knocks at my apartment. Instead of meeting him at the door with an embrace like usual, I casually yell from the kitchen, “It’s open!” I’m making guacamole, wearing winged black eyeliner and Utah curls, trying to steady my hands.
“Are we going to be able to have fun tonight?” he asks.
“We have to treat it like ‘The Purge,’” I say. “We can say or do anything we want … except talk about the fact that we are broken up.”
He nods. “Deal.”
We decide to walk to the Grove. It was our move: a 20-minute stroll to the mall to catch a movie. He holds my hand on the way, more tenderly than he ever did while we were together. As we wait for the light to change, he stares at my face like he’s trying to memorize it.
“My plan is working!” I think. I can’t help but smile.
As we walk down the cobblestone street of the Grove, Matt mentions that he is looking forward to meeting people at his best friend’s wedding. It was an invite I was hoping for but never got. I picture him in a tux laughing with a beautiful girl on the dance floor, of course.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, turning back toward home.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the movie.”
At the AMC bar, Matt orders a beer. I choose the “Love Potion,” noted on the chalkboard sign as an early Valentine’s Day special.
The bartender hesitates. “I’m supposed to be closed.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just have the beer.” I’ll take what I can get.
We share a giant tub of popcorn, stealing kisses throughout the previews. We must look like the type of couple that would inspire envy, not one in the process of saying goodbye.
On the walk home, we duck into the Kibitz Room, the dive bar off Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue.
“We just broke up!” we announce as we slide onto our barstools. Cheers erupt. Someone sends over shots.
“To your breakup!”
A few drinks in, I’m kissing Matt’s cheek, telling him I’ll never be able to look at another man. That I’m going to a nunnery. I tell him I love him. For the first time, he tells me he loves me too.
The woman sitting next to me leans close. “You’re not going to break up, are you?” I smile. “Classic,” she says.
A live band of middle-aged men begins jamming to an endless chorus of, “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.” I grab a string of balloons and wrap them around Matt, spinning him in circles on the dance floor. “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.”
We fall out of the bar into the quiet evening. “Wasn’t that crazy they were playing that song?” I ask.
“What song?” he replies.
“That Rolling Stones song,” I say.
“I didn’t notice.”
He stays the night. We hold onto each other like he’s headed off to war. As I drift off to sleep, I think, “If these are not strong romantic feelings, I have no idea what is.”
The next morning, we decide to watch “Tommy Boy.” He hands me a cup of coffee and settles onto the couch, putting his feet up on the ottoman. He is calm, no longer tearful. Whatever urgency he felt the night before is gone.
“Do you want to cuddle until I have to go?” he asks.
I sit up. “You’re leaving? For good?”
But he’s already on his phone, getting ready for what’s next.
I’ve since blocked his number. I’m mostly living the self-fulfilling prophecy of the nunnery, though I have recently made a Bumble profile.
Sometimes I think of that night and the way I was convinced that if I got everything right, if the night felt like us at our best, it might unlock the same passion in him I felt so strongly. But by morning, nothing had changed. I postponed my grief for a night, but it was waiting for me at the door.
My new Bumble profile includes the prompt, “Describe your perfect date.”
“A walk to the Grove, a movie over a shared tub of popcorn, and a stop at the Kibitz Room on the way home.”
The author is a staff writer on the Apple TV show “Platonic.” She lives in West Hollywood. She’s on Instagram: @reeshmeese.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
I’m driving down Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Los Angeles, listening to Matt’s proposal over my car speaker, my eyes blurry from crying.
“What would you say to one final date?” he asks.
He had broken off our seven-month relationship the day before, revealing he had never developed “strong romantic feelings” for me. Brutal. “Could we still hang out as friends?” he had asked through tears. “I need you.”
Yesterday I was stoic. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me, you don’t get the pleasure of my company,” I had said. It was the kind of line a Kerry Washington character delivers.
Now, as I take a turn too fast, I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. I agree to one final date. This could be one last chance to change his mind.
I had felt “strong romantic feelings” from the moment Matt had let me cut in front of him at the water station at 4100 Bar.
“What a gentleman,” I remarked.
“I’m from the South,” he replied, proudly adjusting his hat.
When he continued the conversation outside, I tried to shake him, sure there was some sort of mistake. But he trailed me like a duckling. Finally, he suggested we make out. I, very much out of character, agreed.
While I tried to sneak out the next morning, he proposed we get brunch. Somehow, we were both reading Bob Odenkirk’s memoir and had the same favorite TV show, “Fleabag.” And we were both in our 30s, balancing inconsistent comedy work with day jobs.
We spent our early days saying yes to everything — impromptu concerts, long walks to Echo Park Lake, Arts District bar-hopping — until it felt strange to be alone again. In our first month of dating, I unknowingly gave him COVID-19. We spent a week straight in bed together recovering and bingeing “Yellowjackets.”
But as time went on, Matt was cagey around his phone and reluctant to call me his girlfriend. When I told him I loved him one morning, he said he needed more time, sending me crying into the kitchen in my underwear. Finally, at the end of January, he broke it all off.
I don’t tell anyone about the final date or my plan to win him back. I know it’s not a good idea — and I know I’m going to do it anyway. I will be the easy, breezy dream date.
Matt knocks at my apartment. Instead of meeting him at the door with an embrace like usual, I casually yell from the kitchen, “It’s open!” I’m making guacamole, wearing winged black eyeliner and Utah curls, trying to steady my hands.
“Are we going to be able to have fun tonight?” he asks.
“We have to treat it like ‘The Purge,’” I say. “We can say or do anything we want … except talk about the fact that we are broken up.”
He nods. “Deal.”
We decide to walk to the Grove. It was our move: a 20-minute stroll to the mall to catch a movie. He holds my hand on the way, more tenderly than he ever did while we were together. As we wait for the light to change, he stares at my face like he’s trying to memorize it.
“My plan is working!” I think. I can’t help but smile.
As we walk down the cobblestone street of the Grove, Matt mentions that he is looking forward to meeting people at his best friend’s wedding. It was an invite I was hoping for but never got. I picture him in a tux laughing with a beautiful girl on the dance floor, of course.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, turning back toward home.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the movie.”
At the AMC bar, Matt orders a beer. I choose the “Love Potion,” noted on the chalkboard sign as an early Valentine’s Day special.
The bartender hesitates. “I’m supposed to be closed.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just have the beer.” I’ll take what I can get.
We share a giant tub of popcorn, stealing kisses throughout the previews. We must look like the type of couple that would inspire envy, not one in the process of saying goodbye.
On the walk home, we duck into the Kibitz Room, the dive bar off Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue.
“We just broke up!” we announce as we slide onto our barstools. Cheers erupt. Someone sends over shots.
“To your breakup!”
A few drinks in, I’m kissing Matt’s cheek, telling him I’ll never be able to look at another man. That I’m going to a nunnery. I tell him I love him. For the first time, he tells me he loves me too.
The woman sitting next to me leans close. “You’re not going to break up, are you?” I smile. “Classic,” she says.
A live band of middle-aged men begins jamming to an endless chorus of, “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.” I grab a string of balloons and wrap them around Matt, spinning him in circles on the dance floor. “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.”
We fall out of the bar into the quiet evening. “Wasn’t that crazy they were playing that song?” I ask.
“What song?” he replies.
“That Rolling Stones song,” I say.
“I didn’t notice.”
He stays the night. We hold onto each other like he’s headed off to war. As I drift off to sleep, I think, “If these are not strong romantic feelings, I have no idea what is.”
The next morning, we decide to watch “Tommy Boy.” He hands me a cup of coffee and settles onto the couch, putting his feet up on the ottoman. He is calm, no longer tearful. Whatever urgency he felt the night before is gone.
“Do you want to cuddle until I have to go?” he asks.
I sit up. “You’re leaving? For good?”
But he’s already on his phone, getting ready for what’s next.
I’ve since blocked his number. I’m mostly living the self-fulfilling prophecy of the nunnery, though I have recently made a Bumble profile.
Sometimes I think of that night and the way I was convinced that if I got everything right, if the night felt like us at our best, it might unlock the same passion in him I felt so strongly. But by morning, nothing had changed. I postponed my grief for a night, but it was waiting for me at the door.
My new Bumble profile includes the prompt, “Describe your perfect date.”
“A walk to the Grove, a movie over a shared tub of popcorn, and a stop at the Kibitz Room on the way home.”
The author is a staff writer on the Apple TV show “Platonic.” She lives in West Hollywood. She’s on Instagram: @reeshmeese.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
I’m driving down Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Los Angeles, listening to Matt’s proposal over my car speaker, my eyes blurry from crying.
“What would you say to one final date?” he asks.
He had broken off our seven-month relationship the day before, revealing he had never developed “strong romantic feelings” for me. Brutal. “Could we still hang out as friends?” he had asked through tears. “I need you.”
Yesterday I was stoic. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me, you don’t get the pleasure of my company,” I had said. It was the kind of line a Kerry Washington character delivers.
Now, as I take a turn too fast, I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. I agree to one final date. This could be one last chance to change his mind.
I had felt “strong romantic feelings” from the moment Matt had let me cut in front of him at the water station at 4100 Bar.
“What a gentleman,” I remarked.
“I’m from the South,” he replied, proudly adjusting his hat.
When he continued the conversation outside, I tried to shake him, sure there was some sort of mistake. But he trailed me like a duckling. Finally, he suggested we make out. I, very much out of character, agreed.
While I tried to sneak out the next morning, he proposed we get brunch. Somehow, we were both reading Bob Odenkirk’s memoir and had the same favorite TV show, “Fleabag.” And we were both in our 30s, balancing inconsistent comedy work with day jobs.
We spent our early days saying yes to everything — impromptu concerts, long walks to Echo Park Lake, Arts District bar-hopping — until it felt strange to be alone again. In our first month of dating, I unknowingly gave him COVID-19. We spent a week straight in bed together recovering and bingeing “Yellowjackets.”
But as time went on, Matt was cagey around his phone and reluctant to call me his girlfriend. When I told him I loved him one morning, he said he needed more time, sending me crying into the kitchen in my underwear. Finally, at the end of January, he broke it all off.
I don’t tell anyone about the final date or my plan to win him back. I know it’s not a good idea — and I know I’m going to do it anyway. I will be the easy, breezy dream date.
Matt knocks at my apartment. Instead of meeting him at the door with an embrace like usual, I casually yell from the kitchen, “It’s open!” I’m making guacamole, wearing winged black eyeliner and Utah curls, trying to steady my hands.
“Are we going to be able to have fun tonight?” he asks.
“We have to treat it like ‘The Purge,’” I say. “We can say or do anything we want … except talk about the fact that we are broken up.”
He nods. “Deal.”
We decide to walk to the Grove. It was our move: a 20-minute stroll to the mall to catch a movie. He holds my hand on the way, more tenderly than he ever did while we were together. As we wait for the light to change, he stares at my face like he’s trying to memorize it.
“My plan is working!” I think. I can’t help but smile.
As we walk down the cobblestone street of the Grove, Matt mentions that he is looking forward to meeting people at his best friend’s wedding. It was an invite I was hoping for but never got. I picture him in a tux laughing with a beautiful girl on the dance floor, of course.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, turning back toward home.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the movie.”
At the AMC bar, Matt orders a beer. I choose the “Love Potion,” noted on the chalkboard sign as an early Valentine’s Day special.
The bartender hesitates. “I’m supposed to be closed.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just have the beer.” I’ll take what I can get.
We share a giant tub of popcorn, stealing kisses throughout the previews. We must look like the type of couple that would inspire envy, not one in the process of saying goodbye.
On the walk home, we duck into the Kibitz Room, the dive bar off Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue.
“We just broke up!” we announce as we slide onto our barstools. Cheers erupt. Someone sends over shots.
“To your breakup!”
A few drinks in, I’m kissing Matt’s cheek, telling him I’ll never be able to look at another man. That I’m going to a nunnery. I tell him I love him. For the first time, he tells me he loves me too.
The woman sitting next to me leans close. “You’re not going to break up, are you?” I smile. “Classic,” she says.
A live band of middle-aged men begins jamming to an endless chorus of, “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.” I grab a string of balloons and wrap them around Matt, spinning him in circles on the dance floor. “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.”
We fall out of the bar into the quiet evening. “Wasn’t that crazy they were playing that song?” I ask.
“What song?” he replies.
“That Rolling Stones song,” I say.
“I didn’t notice.”
He stays the night. We hold onto each other like he’s headed off to war. As I drift off to sleep, I think, “If these are not strong romantic feelings, I have no idea what is.”
The next morning, we decide to watch “Tommy Boy.” He hands me a cup of coffee and settles onto the couch, putting his feet up on the ottoman. He is calm, no longer tearful. Whatever urgency he felt the night before is gone.
“Do you want to cuddle until I have to go?” he asks.
I sit up. “You’re leaving? For good?”
But he’s already on his phone, getting ready for what’s next.
I’ve since blocked his number. I’m mostly living the self-fulfilling prophecy of the nunnery, though I have recently made a Bumble profile.
Sometimes I think of that night and the way I was convinced that if I got everything right, if the night felt like us at our best, it might unlock the same passion in him I felt so strongly. But by morning, nothing had changed. I postponed my grief for a night, but it was waiting for me at the door.
My new Bumble profile includes the prompt, “Describe your perfect date.”
“A walk to the Grove, a movie over a shared tub of popcorn, and a stop at the Kibitz Room on the way home.”
The author is a staff writer on the Apple TV show “Platonic.” She lives in West Hollywood. She’s on Instagram: @reeshmeese.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
I’m driving down Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Los Angeles, listening to Matt’s proposal over my car speaker, my eyes blurry from crying.
“What would you say to one final date?” he asks.
He had broken off our seven-month relationship the day before, revealing he had never developed “strong romantic feelings” for me. Brutal. “Could we still hang out as friends?” he had asked through tears. “I need you.”
Yesterday I was stoic. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me, you don’t get the pleasure of my company,” I had said. It was the kind of line a Kerry Washington character delivers.
Now, as I take a turn too fast, I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. I agree to one final date. This could be one last chance to change his mind.
I had felt “strong romantic feelings” from the moment Matt had let me cut in front of him at the water station at 4100 Bar.
“What a gentleman,” I remarked.
“I’m from the South,” he replied, proudly adjusting his hat.
When he continued the conversation outside, I tried to shake him, sure there was some sort of mistake. But he trailed me like a duckling. Finally, he suggested we make out. I, very much out of character, agreed.
While I tried to sneak out the next morning, he proposed we get brunch. Somehow, we were both reading Bob Odenkirk’s memoir and had the same favorite TV show, “Fleabag.” And we were both in our 30s, balancing inconsistent comedy work with day jobs.
We spent our early days saying yes to everything — impromptu concerts, long walks to Echo Park Lake, Arts District bar-hopping — until it felt strange to be alone again. In our first month of dating, I unknowingly gave him COVID-19. We spent a week straight in bed together recovering and bingeing “Yellowjackets.”
But as time went on, Matt was cagey around his phone and reluctant to call me his girlfriend. When I told him I loved him one morning, he said he needed more time, sending me crying into the kitchen in my underwear. Finally, at the end of January, he broke it all off.
I don’t tell anyone about the final date or my plan to win him back. I know it’s not a good idea — and I know I’m going to do it anyway. I will be the easy, breezy dream date.
Matt knocks at my apartment. Instead of meeting him at the door with an embrace like usual, I casually yell from the kitchen, “It’s open!” I’m making guacamole, wearing winged black eyeliner and Utah curls, trying to steady my hands.
“Are we going to be able to have fun tonight?” he asks.
“We have to treat it like ‘The Purge,’” I say. “We can say or do anything we want … except talk about the fact that we are broken up.”
He nods. “Deal.”
We decide to walk to the Grove. It was our move: a 20-minute stroll to the mall to catch a movie. He holds my hand on the way, more tenderly than he ever did while we were together. As we wait for the light to change, he stares at my face like he’s trying to memorize it.
“My plan is working!” I think. I can’t help but smile.
As we walk down the cobblestone street of the Grove, Matt mentions that he is looking forward to meeting people at his best friend’s wedding. It was an invite I was hoping for but never got. I picture him in a tux laughing with a beautiful girl on the dance floor, of course.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, turning back toward home.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the movie.”
At the AMC bar, Matt orders a beer. I choose the “Love Potion,” noted on the chalkboard sign as an early Valentine’s Day special.
The bartender hesitates. “I’m supposed to be closed.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just have the beer.” I’ll take what I can get.
We share a giant tub of popcorn, stealing kisses throughout the previews. We must look like the type of couple that would inspire envy, not one in the process of saying goodbye.
On the walk home, we duck into the Kibitz Room, the dive bar off Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue.
“We just broke up!” we announce as we slide onto our barstools. Cheers erupt. Someone sends over shots.
“To your breakup!”
A few drinks in, I’m kissing Matt’s cheek, telling him I’ll never be able to look at another man. That I’m going to a nunnery. I tell him I love him. For the first time, he tells me he loves me too.
The woman sitting next to me leans close. “You’re not going to break up, are you?” I smile. “Classic,” she says.
A live band of middle-aged men begins jamming to an endless chorus of, “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.” I grab a string of balloons and wrap them around Matt, spinning him in circles on the dance floor. “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.”
We fall out of the bar into the quiet evening. “Wasn’t that crazy they were playing that song?” I ask.
“What song?” he replies.
“That Rolling Stones song,” I say.
“I didn’t notice.”
He stays the night. We hold onto each other like he’s headed off to war. As I drift off to sleep, I think, “If these are not strong romantic feelings, I have no idea what is.”
The next morning, we decide to watch “Tommy Boy.” He hands me a cup of coffee and settles onto the couch, putting his feet up on the ottoman. He is calm, no longer tearful. Whatever urgency he felt the night before is gone.
“Do you want to cuddle until I have to go?” he asks.
I sit up. “You’re leaving? For good?”
But he’s already on his phone, getting ready for what’s next.
I’ve since blocked his number. I’m mostly living the self-fulfilling prophecy of the nunnery, though I have recently made a Bumble profile.
Sometimes I think of that night and the way I was convinced that if I got everything right, if the night felt like us at our best, it might unlock the same passion in him I felt so strongly. But by morning, nothing had changed. I postponed my grief for a night, but it was waiting for me at the door.
My new Bumble profile includes the prompt, “Describe your perfect date.”
“A walk to the Grove, a movie over a shared tub of popcorn, and a stop at the Kibitz Room on the way home.”
The author is a staff writer on the Apple TV show “Platonic.” She lives in West Hollywood. She’s on Instagram: @reeshmeese.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
I’m driving down Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Los Angeles, listening to Matt’s proposal over my car speaker, my eyes blurry from crying.
“What would you say to one final date?” he asks.
He had broken off our seven-month relationship the day before, revealing he had never developed “strong romantic feelings” for me. Brutal. “Could we still hang out as friends?” he had asked through tears. “I need you.”
Yesterday I was stoic. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me, you don’t get the pleasure of my company,” I had said. It was the kind of line a Kerry Washington character delivers.
Now, as I take a turn too fast, I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. I agree to one final date. This could be one last chance to change his mind.
I had felt “strong romantic feelings” from the moment Matt had let me cut in front of him at the water station at 4100 Bar.
“What a gentleman,” I remarked.
“I’m from the South,” he replied, proudly adjusting his hat.
When he continued the conversation outside, I tried to shake him, sure there was some sort of mistake. But he trailed me like a duckling. Finally, he suggested we make out. I, very much out of character, agreed.
While I tried to sneak out the next morning, he proposed we get brunch. Somehow, we were both reading Bob Odenkirk’s memoir and had the same favorite TV show, “Fleabag.” And we were both in our 30s, balancing inconsistent comedy work with day jobs.
We spent our early days saying yes to everything — impromptu concerts, long walks to Echo Park Lake, Arts District bar-hopping — until it felt strange to be alone again. In our first month of dating, I unknowingly gave him COVID-19. We spent a week straight in bed together recovering and bingeing “Yellowjackets.”
But as time went on, Matt was cagey around his phone and reluctant to call me his girlfriend. When I told him I loved him one morning, he said he needed more time, sending me crying into the kitchen in my underwear. Finally, at the end of January, he broke it all off.
I don’t tell anyone about the final date or my plan to win him back. I know it’s not a good idea — and I know I’m going to do it anyway. I will be the easy, breezy dream date.
Matt knocks at my apartment. Instead of meeting him at the door with an embrace like usual, I casually yell from the kitchen, “It’s open!” I’m making guacamole, wearing winged black eyeliner and Utah curls, trying to steady my hands.
“Are we going to be able to have fun tonight?” he asks.
“We have to treat it like ‘The Purge,’” I say. “We can say or do anything we want … except talk about the fact that we are broken up.”
He nods. “Deal.”
We decide to walk to the Grove. It was our move: a 20-minute stroll to the mall to catch a movie. He holds my hand on the way, more tenderly than he ever did while we were together. As we wait for the light to change, he stares at my face like he’s trying to memorize it.
“My plan is working!” I think. I can’t help but smile.
As we walk down the cobblestone street of the Grove, Matt mentions that he is looking forward to meeting people at his best friend’s wedding. It was an invite I was hoping for but never got. I picture him in a tux laughing with a beautiful girl on the dance floor, of course.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, turning back toward home.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the movie.”
At the AMC bar, Matt orders a beer. I choose the “Love Potion,” noted on the chalkboard sign as an early Valentine’s Day special.
The bartender hesitates. “I’m supposed to be closed.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just have the beer.” I’ll take what I can get.
We share a giant tub of popcorn, stealing kisses throughout the previews. We must look like the type of couple that would inspire envy, not one in the process of saying goodbye.
On the walk home, we duck into the Kibitz Room, the dive bar off Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue.
“We just broke up!” we announce as we slide onto our barstools. Cheers erupt. Someone sends over shots.
“To your breakup!”
A few drinks in, I’m kissing Matt’s cheek, telling him I’ll never be able to look at another man. That I’m going to a nunnery. I tell him I love him. For the first time, he tells me he loves me too.
The woman sitting next to me leans close. “You’re not going to break up, are you?” I smile. “Classic,” she says.
A live band of middle-aged men begins jamming to an endless chorus of, “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.” I grab a string of balloons and wrap them around Matt, spinning him in circles on the dance floor. “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.”
We fall out of the bar into the quiet evening. “Wasn’t that crazy they were playing that song?” I ask.
“What song?” he replies.
“That Rolling Stones song,” I say.
“I didn’t notice.”
He stays the night. We hold onto each other like he’s headed off to war. As I drift off to sleep, I think, “If these are not strong romantic feelings, I have no idea what is.”
The next morning, we decide to watch “Tommy Boy.” He hands me a cup of coffee and settles onto the couch, putting his feet up on the ottoman. He is calm, no longer tearful. Whatever urgency he felt the night before is gone.
“Do you want to cuddle until I have to go?” he asks.
I sit up. “You’re leaving? For good?”
But he’s already on his phone, getting ready for what’s next.
I’ve since blocked his number. I’m mostly living the self-fulfilling prophecy of the nunnery, though I have recently made a Bumble profile.
Sometimes I think of that night and the way I was convinced that if I got everything right, if the night felt like us at our best, it might unlock the same passion in him I felt so strongly. But by morning, nothing had changed. I postponed my grief for a night, but it was waiting for me at the door.
My new Bumble profile includes the prompt, “Describe your perfect date.”
“A walk to the Grove, a movie over a shared tub of popcorn, and a stop at the Kibitz Room on the way home.”
The author is a staff writer on the Apple TV show “Platonic.” She lives in West Hollywood. She’s on Instagram: @reeshmeese.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
I’m driving down Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Los Angeles, listening to Matt’s proposal over my car speaker, my eyes blurry from crying.
“What would you say to one final date?” he asks.
He had broken off our seven-month relationship the day before, revealing he had never developed “strong romantic feelings” for me. Brutal. “Could we still hang out as friends?” he had asked through tears. “I need you.”
Yesterday I was stoic. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me, you don’t get the pleasure of my company,” I had said. It was the kind of line a Kerry Washington character delivers.
Now, as I take a turn too fast, I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. I agree to one final date. This could be one last chance to change his mind.
I had felt “strong romantic feelings” from the moment Matt had let me cut in front of him at the water station at 4100 Bar.
“What a gentleman,” I remarked.
“I’m from the South,” he replied, proudly adjusting his hat.
When he continued the conversation outside, I tried to shake him, sure there was some sort of mistake. But he trailed me like a duckling. Finally, he suggested we make out. I, very much out of character, agreed.
While I tried to sneak out the next morning, he proposed we get brunch. Somehow, we were both reading Bob Odenkirk’s memoir and had the same favorite TV show, “Fleabag.” And we were both in our 30s, balancing inconsistent comedy work with day jobs.
We spent our early days saying yes to everything — impromptu concerts, long walks to Echo Park Lake, Arts District bar-hopping — until it felt strange to be alone again. In our first month of dating, I unknowingly gave him COVID-19. We spent a week straight in bed together recovering and bingeing “Yellowjackets.”
But as time went on, Matt was cagey around his phone and reluctant to call me his girlfriend. When I told him I loved him one morning, he said he needed more time, sending me crying into the kitchen in my underwear. Finally, at the end of January, he broke it all off.
I don’t tell anyone about the final date or my plan to win him back. I know it’s not a good idea — and I know I’m going to do it anyway. I will be the easy, breezy dream date.
Matt knocks at my apartment. Instead of meeting him at the door with an embrace like usual, I casually yell from the kitchen, “It’s open!” I’m making guacamole, wearing winged black eyeliner and Utah curls, trying to steady my hands.
“Are we going to be able to have fun tonight?” he asks.
“We have to treat it like ‘The Purge,’” I say. “We can say or do anything we want … except talk about the fact that we are broken up.”
He nods. “Deal.”
We decide to walk to the Grove. It was our move: a 20-minute stroll to the mall to catch a movie. He holds my hand on the way, more tenderly than he ever did while we were together. As we wait for the light to change, he stares at my face like he’s trying to memorize it.
“My plan is working!” I think. I can’t help but smile.
As we walk down the cobblestone street of the Grove, Matt mentions that he is looking forward to meeting people at his best friend’s wedding. It was an invite I was hoping for but never got. I picture him in a tux laughing with a beautiful girl on the dance floor, of course.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, turning back toward home.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the movie.”
At the AMC bar, Matt orders a beer. I choose the “Love Potion,” noted on the chalkboard sign as an early Valentine’s Day special.
The bartender hesitates. “I’m supposed to be closed.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just have the beer.” I’ll take what I can get.
We share a giant tub of popcorn, stealing kisses throughout the previews. We must look like the type of couple that would inspire envy, not one in the process of saying goodbye.
On the walk home, we duck into the Kibitz Room, the dive bar off Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue.
“We just broke up!” we announce as we slide onto our barstools. Cheers erupt. Someone sends over shots.
“To your breakup!”
A few drinks in, I’m kissing Matt’s cheek, telling him I’ll never be able to look at another man. That I’m going to a nunnery. I tell him I love him. For the first time, he tells me he loves me too.
The woman sitting next to me leans close. “You’re not going to break up, are you?” I smile. “Classic,” she says.
A live band of middle-aged men begins jamming to an endless chorus of, “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.” I grab a string of balloons and wrap them around Matt, spinning him in circles on the dance floor. “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.”
We fall out of the bar into the quiet evening. “Wasn’t that crazy they were playing that song?” I ask.
“What song?” he replies.
“That Rolling Stones song,” I say.
“I didn’t notice.”
He stays the night. We hold onto each other like he’s headed off to war. As I drift off to sleep, I think, “If these are not strong romantic feelings, I have no idea what is.”
The next morning, we decide to watch “Tommy Boy.” He hands me a cup of coffee and settles onto the couch, putting his feet up on the ottoman. He is calm, no longer tearful. Whatever urgency he felt the night before is gone.
“Do you want to cuddle until I have to go?” he asks.
I sit up. “You’re leaving? For good?”
But he’s already on his phone, getting ready for what’s next.
I’ve since blocked his number. I’m mostly living the self-fulfilling prophecy of the nunnery, though I have recently made a Bumble profile.
Sometimes I think of that night and the way I was convinced that if I got everything right, if the night felt like us at our best, it might unlock the same passion in him I felt so strongly. But by morning, nothing had changed. I postponed my grief for a night, but it was waiting for me at the door.
My new Bumble profile includes the prompt, “Describe your perfect date.”
“A walk to the Grove, a movie over a shared tub of popcorn, and a stop at the Kibitz Room on the way home.”
The author is a staff writer on the Apple TV show “Platonic.” She lives in West Hollywood. She’s on Instagram: @reeshmeese.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
I’m driving down Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Los Angeles, listening to Matt’s proposal over my car speaker, my eyes blurry from crying.
“What would you say to one final date?” he asks.
He had broken off our seven-month relationship the day before, revealing he had never developed “strong romantic feelings” for me. Brutal. “Could we still hang out as friends?” he had asked through tears. “I need you.”
Yesterday I was stoic. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me, you don’t get the pleasure of my company,” I had said. It was the kind of line a Kerry Washington character delivers.
Now, as I take a turn too fast, I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. I agree to one final date. This could be one last chance to change his mind.
I had felt “strong romantic feelings” from the moment Matt had let me cut in front of him at the water station at 4100 Bar.
“What a gentleman,” I remarked.
“I’m from the South,” he replied, proudly adjusting his hat.
When he continued the conversation outside, I tried to shake him, sure there was some sort of mistake. But he trailed me like a duckling. Finally, he suggested we make out. I, very much out of character, agreed.
While I tried to sneak out the next morning, he proposed we get brunch. Somehow, we were both reading Bob Odenkirk’s memoir and had the same favorite TV show, “Fleabag.” And we were both in our 30s, balancing inconsistent comedy work with day jobs.
We spent our early days saying yes to everything — impromptu concerts, long walks to Echo Park Lake, Arts District bar-hopping — until it felt strange to be alone again. In our first month of dating, I unknowingly gave him COVID-19. We spent a week straight in bed together recovering and bingeing “Yellowjackets.”
But as time went on, Matt was cagey around his phone and reluctant to call me his girlfriend. When I told him I loved him one morning, he said he needed more time, sending me crying into the kitchen in my underwear. Finally, at the end of January, he broke it all off.
I don’t tell anyone about the final date or my plan to win him back. I know it’s not a good idea — and I know I’m going to do it anyway. I will be the easy, breezy dream date.
Matt knocks at my apartment. Instead of meeting him at the door with an embrace like usual, I casually yell from the kitchen, “It’s open!” I’m making guacamole, wearing winged black eyeliner and Utah curls, trying to steady my hands.
“Are we going to be able to have fun tonight?” he asks.
“We have to treat it like ‘The Purge,’” I say. “We can say or do anything we want … except talk about the fact that we are broken up.”
He nods. “Deal.”
We decide to walk to the Grove. It was our move: a 20-minute stroll to the mall to catch a movie. He holds my hand on the way, more tenderly than he ever did while we were together. As we wait for the light to change, he stares at my face like he’s trying to memorize it.
“My plan is working!” I think. I can’t help but smile.
As we walk down the cobblestone street of the Grove, Matt mentions that he is looking forward to meeting people at his best friend’s wedding. It was an invite I was hoping for but never got. I picture him in a tux laughing with a beautiful girl on the dance floor, of course.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, turning back toward home.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the movie.”
At the AMC bar, Matt orders a beer. I choose the “Love Potion,” noted on the chalkboard sign as an early Valentine’s Day special.
The bartender hesitates. “I’m supposed to be closed.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just have the beer.” I’ll take what I can get.
We share a giant tub of popcorn, stealing kisses throughout the previews. We must look like the type of couple that would inspire envy, not one in the process of saying goodbye.
On the walk home, we duck into the Kibitz Room, the dive bar off Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue.
“We just broke up!” we announce as we slide onto our barstools. Cheers erupt. Someone sends over shots.
“To your breakup!”
A few drinks in, I’m kissing Matt’s cheek, telling him I’ll never be able to look at another man. That I’m going to a nunnery. I tell him I love him. For the first time, he tells me he loves me too.
The woman sitting next to me leans close. “You’re not going to break up, are you?” I smile. “Classic,” she says.
A live band of middle-aged men begins jamming to an endless chorus of, “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.” I grab a string of balloons and wrap them around Matt, spinning him in circles on the dance floor. “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.”
We fall out of the bar into the quiet evening. “Wasn’t that crazy they were playing that song?” I ask.
“What song?” he replies.
“That Rolling Stones song,” I say.
“I didn’t notice.”
He stays the night. We hold onto each other like he’s headed off to war. As I drift off to sleep, I think, “If these are not strong romantic feelings, I have no idea what is.”
The next morning, we decide to watch “Tommy Boy.” He hands me a cup of coffee and settles onto the couch, putting his feet up on the ottoman. He is calm, no longer tearful. Whatever urgency he felt the night before is gone.
“Do you want to cuddle until I have to go?” he asks.
I sit up. “You’re leaving? For good?”
But he’s already on his phone, getting ready for what’s next.
I’ve since blocked his number. I’m mostly living the self-fulfilling prophecy of the nunnery, though I have recently made a Bumble profile.
Sometimes I think of that night and the way I was convinced that if I got everything right, if the night felt like us at our best, it might unlock the same passion in him I felt so strongly. But by morning, nothing had changed. I postponed my grief for a night, but it was waiting for me at the door.
My new Bumble profile includes the prompt, “Describe your perfect date.”
“A walk to the Grove, a movie over a shared tub of popcorn, and a stop at the Kibitz Room on the way home.”
The author is a staff writer on the Apple TV show “Platonic.” She lives in West Hollywood. She’s on Instagram: @reeshmeese.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
I’m driving down Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Los Angeles, listening to Matt’s proposal over my car speaker, my eyes blurry from crying.
“What would you say to one final date?” he asks.
He had broken off our seven-month relationship the day before, revealing he had never developed “strong romantic feelings” for me. Brutal. “Could we still hang out as friends?” he had asked through tears. “I need you.”
Yesterday I was stoic. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me, you don’t get the pleasure of my company,” I had said. It was the kind of line a Kerry Washington character delivers.
Now, as I take a turn too fast, I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. I agree to one final date. This could be one last chance to change his mind.
I had felt “strong romantic feelings” from the moment Matt had let me cut in front of him at the water station at 4100 Bar.
“What a gentleman,” I remarked.
“I’m from the South,” he replied, proudly adjusting his hat.
When he continued the conversation outside, I tried to shake him, sure there was some sort of mistake. But he trailed me like a duckling. Finally, he suggested we make out. I, very much out of character, agreed.
While I tried to sneak out the next morning, he proposed we get brunch. Somehow, we were both reading Bob Odenkirk’s memoir and had the same favorite TV show, “Fleabag.” And we were both in our 30s, balancing inconsistent comedy work with day jobs.
We spent our early days saying yes to everything — impromptu concerts, long walks to Echo Park Lake, Arts District bar-hopping — until it felt strange to be alone again. In our first month of dating, I unknowingly gave him COVID-19. We spent a week straight in bed together recovering and bingeing “Yellowjackets.”
But as time went on, Matt was cagey around his phone and reluctant to call me his girlfriend. When I told him I loved him one morning, he said he needed more time, sending me crying into the kitchen in my underwear. Finally, at the end of January, he broke it all off.
I don’t tell anyone about the final date or my plan to win him back. I know it’s not a good idea — and I know I’m going to do it anyway. I will be the easy, breezy dream date.
Matt knocks at my apartment. Instead of meeting him at the door with an embrace like usual, I casually yell from the kitchen, “It’s open!” I’m making guacamole, wearing winged black eyeliner and Utah curls, trying to steady my hands.
“Are we going to be able to have fun tonight?” he asks.
“We have to treat it like ‘The Purge,’” I say. “We can say or do anything we want … except talk about the fact that we are broken up.”
He nods. “Deal.”
We decide to walk to the Grove. It was our move: a 20-minute stroll to the mall to catch a movie. He holds my hand on the way, more tenderly than he ever did while we were together. As we wait for the light to change, he stares at my face like he’s trying to memorize it.
“My plan is working!” I think. I can’t help but smile.
As we walk down the cobblestone street of the Grove, Matt mentions that he is looking forward to meeting people at his best friend’s wedding. It was an invite I was hoping for but never got. I picture him in a tux laughing with a beautiful girl on the dance floor, of course.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, turning back toward home.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the movie.”
At the AMC bar, Matt orders a beer. I choose the “Love Potion,” noted on the chalkboard sign as an early Valentine’s Day special.
The bartender hesitates. “I’m supposed to be closed.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just have the beer.” I’ll take what I can get.
We share a giant tub of popcorn, stealing kisses throughout the previews. We must look like the type of couple that would inspire envy, not one in the process of saying goodbye.
On the walk home, we duck into the Kibitz Room, the dive bar off Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue.
“We just broke up!” we announce as we slide onto our barstools. Cheers erupt. Someone sends over shots.
“To your breakup!”
A few drinks in, I’m kissing Matt’s cheek, telling him I’ll never be able to look at another man. That I’m going to a nunnery. I tell him I love him. For the first time, he tells me he loves me too.
The woman sitting next to me leans close. “You’re not going to break up, are you?” I smile. “Classic,” she says.
A live band of middle-aged men begins jamming to an endless chorus of, “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.” I grab a string of balloons and wrap them around Matt, spinning him in circles on the dance floor. “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.”
We fall out of the bar into the quiet evening. “Wasn’t that crazy they were playing that song?” I ask.
“What song?” he replies.
“That Rolling Stones song,” I say.
“I didn’t notice.”
He stays the night. We hold onto each other like he’s headed off to war. As I drift off to sleep, I think, “If these are not strong romantic feelings, I have no idea what is.”
The next morning, we decide to watch “Tommy Boy.” He hands me a cup of coffee and settles onto the couch, putting his feet up on the ottoman. He is calm, no longer tearful. Whatever urgency he felt the night before is gone.
“Do you want to cuddle until I have to go?” he asks.
I sit up. “You’re leaving? For good?”
But he’s already on his phone, getting ready for what’s next.
I’ve since blocked his number. I’m mostly living the self-fulfilling prophecy of the nunnery, though I have recently made a Bumble profile.
Sometimes I think of that night and the way I was convinced that if I got everything right, if the night felt like us at our best, it might unlock the same passion in him I felt so strongly. But by morning, nothing had changed. I postponed my grief for a night, but it was waiting for me at the door.
My new Bumble profile includes the prompt, “Describe your perfect date.”
“A walk to the Grove, a movie over a shared tub of popcorn, and a stop at the Kibitz Room on the way home.”
The author is a staff writer on the Apple TV show “Platonic.” She lives in West Hollywood. She’s on Instagram: @reeshmeese.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
I’m driving down Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Los Angeles, listening to Matt’s proposal over my car speaker, my eyes blurry from crying.
“What would you say to one final date?” he asks.
He had broken off our seven-month relationship the day before, revealing he had never developed “strong romantic feelings” for me. Brutal. “Could we still hang out as friends?” he had asked through tears. “I need you.”
Yesterday I was stoic. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me, you don’t get the pleasure of my company,” I had said. It was the kind of line a Kerry Washington character delivers.
Now, as I take a turn too fast, I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. I agree to one final date. This could be one last chance to change his mind.
I had felt “strong romantic feelings” from the moment Matt had let me cut in front of him at the water station at 4100 Bar.
“What a gentleman,” I remarked.
“I’m from the South,” he replied, proudly adjusting his hat.
When he continued the conversation outside, I tried to shake him, sure there was some sort of mistake. But he trailed me like a duckling. Finally, he suggested we make out. I, very much out of character, agreed.
While I tried to sneak out the next morning, he proposed we get brunch. Somehow, we were both reading Bob Odenkirk’s memoir and had the same favorite TV show, “Fleabag.” And we were both in our 30s, balancing inconsistent comedy work with day jobs.
We spent our early days saying yes to everything — impromptu concerts, long walks to Echo Park Lake, Arts District bar-hopping — until it felt strange to be alone again. In our first month of dating, I unknowingly gave him COVID-19. We spent a week straight in bed together recovering and bingeing “Yellowjackets.”
But as time went on, Matt was cagey around his phone and reluctant to call me his girlfriend. When I told him I loved him one morning, he said he needed more time, sending me crying into the kitchen in my underwear. Finally, at the end of January, he broke it all off.
I don’t tell anyone about the final date or my plan to win him back. I know it’s not a good idea — and I know I’m going to do it anyway. I will be the easy, breezy dream date.
Matt knocks at my apartment. Instead of meeting him at the door with an embrace like usual, I casually yell from the kitchen, “It’s open!” I’m making guacamole, wearing winged black eyeliner and Utah curls, trying to steady my hands.
“Are we going to be able to have fun tonight?” he asks.
“We have to treat it like ‘The Purge,’” I say. “We can say or do anything we want … except talk about the fact that we are broken up.”
He nods. “Deal.”
We decide to walk to the Grove. It was our move: a 20-minute stroll to the mall to catch a movie. He holds my hand on the way, more tenderly than he ever did while we were together. As we wait for the light to change, he stares at my face like he’s trying to memorize it.
“My plan is working!” I think. I can’t help but smile.
As we walk down the cobblestone street of the Grove, Matt mentions that he is looking forward to meeting people at his best friend’s wedding. It was an invite I was hoping for but never got. I picture him in a tux laughing with a beautiful girl on the dance floor, of course.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, turning back toward home.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the movie.”
At the AMC bar, Matt orders a beer. I choose the “Love Potion,” noted on the chalkboard sign as an early Valentine’s Day special.
The bartender hesitates. “I’m supposed to be closed.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just have the beer.” I’ll take what I can get.
We share a giant tub of popcorn, stealing kisses throughout the previews. We must look like the type of couple that would inspire envy, not one in the process of saying goodbye.
On the walk home, we duck into the Kibitz Room, the dive bar off Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue.
“We just broke up!” we announce as we slide onto our barstools. Cheers erupt. Someone sends over shots.
“To your breakup!”
A few drinks in, I’m kissing Matt’s cheek, telling him I’ll never be able to look at another man. That I’m going to a nunnery. I tell him I love him. For the first time, he tells me he loves me too.
The woman sitting next to me leans close. “You’re not going to break up, are you?” I smile. “Classic,” she says.
A live band of middle-aged men begins jamming to an endless chorus of, “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.” I grab a string of balloons and wrap them around Matt, spinning him in circles on the dance floor. “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.”
We fall out of the bar into the quiet evening. “Wasn’t that crazy they were playing that song?” I ask.
“What song?” he replies.
“That Rolling Stones song,” I say.
“I didn’t notice.”
He stays the night. We hold onto each other like he’s headed off to war. As I drift off to sleep, I think, “If these are not strong romantic feelings, I have no idea what is.”
The next morning, we decide to watch “Tommy Boy.” He hands me a cup of coffee and settles onto the couch, putting his feet up on the ottoman. He is calm, no longer tearful. Whatever urgency he felt the night before is gone.
“Do you want to cuddle until I have to go?” he asks.
I sit up. “You’re leaving? For good?”
But he’s already on his phone, getting ready for what’s next.
I’ve since blocked his number. I’m mostly living the self-fulfilling prophecy of the nunnery, though I have recently made a Bumble profile.
Sometimes I think of that night and the way I was convinced that if I got everything right, if the night felt like us at our best, it might unlock the same passion in him I felt so strongly. But by morning, nothing had changed. I postponed my grief for a night, but it was waiting for me at the door.
My new Bumble profile includes the prompt, “Describe your perfect date.”
“A walk to the Grove, a movie over a shared tub of popcorn, and a stop at the Kibitz Room on the way home.”
The author is a staff writer on the Apple TV show “Platonic.” She lives in West Hollywood. She’s on Instagram: @reeshmeese.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
I’m driving down Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Los Angeles, listening to Matt’s proposal over my car speaker, my eyes blurry from crying.
“What would you say to one final date?” he asks.
He had broken off our seven-month relationship the day before, revealing he had never developed “strong romantic feelings” for me. Brutal. “Could we still hang out as friends?” he had asked through tears. “I need you.”
Yesterday I was stoic. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me, you don’t get the pleasure of my company,” I had said. It was the kind of line a Kerry Washington character delivers.
Now, as I take a turn too fast, I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. I agree to one final date. This could be one last chance to change his mind.
I had felt “strong romantic feelings” from the moment Matt had let me cut in front of him at the water station at 4100 Bar.
“What a gentleman,” I remarked.
“I’m from the South,” he replied, proudly adjusting his hat.
When he continued the conversation outside, I tried to shake him, sure there was some sort of mistake. But he trailed me like a duckling. Finally, he suggested we make out. I, very much out of character, agreed.
While I tried to sneak out the next morning, he proposed we get brunch. Somehow, we were both reading Bob Odenkirk’s memoir and had the same favorite TV show, “Fleabag.” And we were both in our 30s, balancing inconsistent comedy work with day jobs.
We spent our early days saying yes to everything — impromptu concerts, long walks to Echo Park Lake, Arts District bar-hopping — until it felt strange to be alone again. In our first month of dating, I unknowingly gave him COVID-19. We spent a week straight in bed together recovering and bingeing “Yellowjackets.”
But as time went on, Matt was cagey around his phone and reluctant to call me his girlfriend. When I told him I loved him one morning, he said he needed more time, sending me crying into the kitchen in my underwear. Finally, at the end of January, he broke it all off.
I don’t tell anyone about the final date or my plan to win him back. I know it’s not a good idea — and I know I’m going to do it anyway. I will be the easy, breezy dream date.
Matt knocks at my apartment. Instead of meeting him at the door with an embrace like usual, I casually yell from the kitchen, “It’s open!” I’m making guacamole, wearing winged black eyeliner and Utah curls, trying to steady my hands.
“Are we going to be able to have fun tonight?” he asks.
“We have to treat it like ‘The Purge,’” I say. “We can say or do anything we want … except talk about the fact that we are broken up.”
He nods. “Deal.”
We decide to walk to the Grove. It was our move: a 20-minute stroll to the mall to catch a movie. He holds my hand on the way, more tenderly than he ever did while we were together. As we wait for the light to change, he stares at my face like he’s trying to memorize it.
“My plan is working!” I think. I can’t help but smile.
As we walk down the cobblestone street of the Grove, Matt mentions that he is looking forward to meeting people at his best friend’s wedding. It was an invite I was hoping for but never got. I picture him in a tux laughing with a beautiful girl on the dance floor, of course.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, turning back toward home.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the movie.”
At the AMC bar, Matt orders a beer. I choose the “Love Potion,” noted on the chalkboard sign as an early Valentine’s Day special.
The bartender hesitates. “I’m supposed to be closed.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just have the beer.” I’ll take what I can get.
We share a giant tub of popcorn, stealing kisses throughout the previews. We must look like the type of couple that would inspire envy, not one in the process of saying goodbye.
On the walk home, we duck into the Kibitz Room, the dive bar off Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue.
“We just broke up!” we announce as we slide onto our barstools. Cheers erupt. Someone sends over shots.
“To your breakup!”
A few drinks in, I’m kissing Matt’s cheek, telling him I’ll never be able to look at another man. That I’m going to a nunnery. I tell him I love him. For the first time, he tells me he loves me too.
The woman sitting next to me leans close. “You’re not going to break up, are you?” I smile. “Classic,” she says.
A live band of middle-aged men begins jamming to an endless chorus of, “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.” I grab a string of balloons and wrap them around Matt, spinning him in circles on the dance floor. “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.”
We fall out of the bar into the quiet evening. “Wasn’t that crazy they were playing that song?” I ask.
“What song?” he replies.
“That Rolling Stones song,” I say.
“I didn’t notice.”
He stays the night. We hold onto each other like he’s headed off to war. As I drift off to sleep, I think, “If these are not strong romantic feelings, I have no idea what is.”
The next morning, we decide to watch “Tommy Boy.” He hands me a cup of coffee and settles onto the couch, putting his feet up on the ottoman. He is calm, no longer tearful. Whatever urgency he felt the night before is gone.
“Do you want to cuddle until I have to go?” he asks.
I sit up. “You’re leaving? For good?”
But he’s already on his phone, getting ready for what’s next.
I’ve since blocked his number. I’m mostly living the self-fulfilling prophecy of the nunnery, though I have recently made a Bumble profile.
Sometimes I think of that night and the way I was convinced that if I got everything right, if the night felt like us at our best, it might unlock the same passion in him I felt so strongly. But by morning, nothing had changed. I postponed my grief for a night, but it was waiting for me at the door.
My new Bumble profile includes the prompt, “Describe your perfect date.”
“A walk to the Grove, a movie over a shared tub of popcorn, and a stop at the Kibitz Room on the way home.”
The author is a staff writer on the Apple TV show “Platonic.” She lives in West Hollywood. She’s on Instagram: @reeshmeese.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
I’m driving down Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Los Angeles, listening to Matt’s proposal over my car speaker, my eyes blurry from crying.
“What would you say to one final date?” he asks.
He had broken off our seven-month relationship the day before, revealing he had never developed “strong romantic feelings” for me. Brutal. “Could we still hang out as friends?” he had asked through tears. “I need you.”
Yesterday I was stoic. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me, you don’t get the pleasure of my company,” I had said. It was the kind of line a Kerry Washington character delivers.
Now, as I take a turn too fast, I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. I agree to one final date. This could be one last chance to change his mind.
I had felt “strong romantic feelings” from the moment Matt had let me cut in front of him at the water station at 4100 Bar.
“What a gentleman,” I remarked.
“I’m from the South,” he replied, proudly adjusting his hat.
When he continued the conversation outside, I tried to shake him, sure there was some sort of mistake. But he trailed me like a duckling. Finally, he suggested we make out. I, very much out of character, agreed.
While I tried to sneak out the next morning, he proposed we get brunch. Somehow, we were both reading Bob Odenkirk’s memoir and had the same favorite TV show, “Fleabag.” And we were both in our 30s, balancing inconsistent comedy work with day jobs.
We spent our early days saying yes to everything — impromptu concerts, long walks to Echo Park Lake, Arts District bar-hopping — until it felt strange to be alone again. In our first month of dating, I unknowingly gave him COVID-19. We spent a week straight in bed together recovering and bingeing “Yellowjackets.”
But as time went on, Matt was cagey around his phone and reluctant to call me his girlfriend. When I told him I loved him one morning, he said he needed more time, sending me crying into the kitchen in my underwear. Finally, at the end of January, he broke it all off.
I don’t tell anyone about the final date or my plan to win him back. I know it’s not a good idea — and I know I’m going to do it anyway. I will be the easy, breezy dream date.
Matt knocks at my apartment. Instead of meeting him at the door with an embrace like usual, I casually yell from the kitchen, “It’s open!” I’m making guacamole, wearing winged black eyeliner and Utah curls, trying to steady my hands.
“Are we going to be able to have fun tonight?” he asks.
“We have to treat it like ‘The Purge,’” I say. “We can say or do anything we want … except talk about the fact that we are broken up.”
He nods. “Deal.”
We decide to walk to the Grove. It was our move: a 20-minute stroll to the mall to catch a movie. He holds my hand on the way, more tenderly than he ever did while we were together. As we wait for the light to change, he stares at my face like he’s trying to memorize it.
“My plan is working!” I think. I can’t help but smile.
As we walk down the cobblestone street of the Grove, Matt mentions that he is looking forward to meeting people at his best friend’s wedding. It was an invite I was hoping for but never got. I picture him in a tux laughing with a beautiful girl on the dance floor, of course.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, turning back toward home.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the movie.”
At the AMC bar, Matt orders a beer. I choose the “Love Potion,” noted on the chalkboard sign as an early Valentine’s Day special.
The bartender hesitates. “I’m supposed to be closed.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just have the beer.” I’ll take what I can get.
We share a giant tub of popcorn, stealing kisses throughout the previews. We must look like the type of couple that would inspire envy, not one in the process of saying goodbye.
On the walk home, we duck into the Kibitz Room, the dive bar off Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue.
“We just broke up!” we announce as we slide onto our barstools. Cheers erupt. Someone sends over shots.
“To your breakup!”
A few drinks in, I’m kissing Matt’s cheek, telling him I’ll never be able to look at another man. That I’m going to a nunnery. I tell him I love him. For the first time, he tells me he loves me too.
The woman sitting next to me leans close. “You’re not going to break up, are you?” I smile. “Classic,” she says.
A live band of middle-aged men begins jamming to an endless chorus of, “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.” I grab a string of balloons and wrap them around Matt, spinning him in circles on the dance floor. “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.”
We fall out of the bar into the quiet evening. “Wasn’t that crazy they were playing that song?” I ask.
“What song?” he replies.
“That Rolling Stones song,” I say.
“I didn’t notice.”
He stays the night. We hold onto each other like he’s headed off to war. As I drift off to sleep, I think, “If these are not strong romantic feelings, I have no idea what is.”
The next morning, we decide to watch “Tommy Boy.” He hands me a cup of coffee and settles onto the couch, putting his feet up on the ottoman. He is calm, no longer tearful. Whatever urgency he felt the night before is gone.
“Do you want to cuddle until I have to go?” he asks.
I sit up. “You’re leaving? For good?”
But he’s already on his phone, getting ready for what’s next.
I’ve since blocked his number. I’m mostly living the self-fulfilling prophecy of the nunnery, though I have recently made a Bumble profile.
Sometimes I think of that night and the way I was convinced that if I got everything right, if the night felt like us at our best, it might unlock the same passion in him I felt so strongly. But by morning, nothing had changed. I postponed my grief for a night, but it was waiting for me at the door.
My new Bumble profile includes the prompt, “Describe your perfect date.”
“A walk to the Grove, a movie over a shared tub of popcorn, and a stop at the Kibitz Room on the way home.”
The author is a staff writer on the Apple TV show “Platonic.” She lives in West Hollywood. She’s on Instagram: @reeshmeese.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
I’m driving down Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Los Angeles, listening to Matt’s proposal over my car speaker, my eyes blurry from crying.
“What would you say to one final date?” he asks.
He had broken off our seven-month relationship the day before, revealing he had never developed “strong romantic feelings” for me. Brutal. “Could we still hang out as friends?” he had asked through tears. “I need you.”
Yesterday I was stoic. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me, you don’t get the pleasure of my company,” I had said. It was the kind of line a Kerry Washington character delivers.
Now, as I take a turn too fast, I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. I agree to one final date. This could be one last chance to change his mind.
I had felt “strong romantic feelings” from the moment Matt had let me cut in front of him at the water station at 4100 Bar.
“What a gentleman,” I remarked.
“I’m from the South,” he replied, proudly adjusting his hat.
When he continued the conversation outside, I tried to shake him, sure there was some sort of mistake. But he trailed me like a duckling. Finally, he suggested we make out. I, very much out of character, agreed.
While I tried to sneak out the next morning, he proposed we get brunch. Somehow, we were both reading Bob Odenkirk’s memoir and had the same favorite TV show, “Fleabag.” And we were both in our 30s, balancing inconsistent comedy work with day jobs.
We spent our early days saying yes to everything — impromptu concerts, long walks to Echo Park Lake, Arts District bar-hopping — until it felt strange to be alone again. In our first month of dating, I unknowingly gave him COVID-19. We spent a week straight in bed together recovering and bingeing “Yellowjackets.”
But as time went on, Matt was cagey around his phone and reluctant to call me his girlfriend. When I told him I loved him one morning, he said he needed more time, sending me crying into the kitchen in my underwear. Finally, at the end of January, he broke it all off.
I don’t tell anyone about the final date or my plan to win him back. I know it’s not a good idea — and I know I’m going to do it anyway. I will be the easy, breezy dream date.
Matt knocks at my apartment. Instead of meeting him at the door with an embrace like usual, I casually yell from the kitchen, “It’s open!” I’m making guacamole, wearing winged black eyeliner and Utah curls, trying to steady my hands.
“Are we going to be able to have fun tonight?” he asks.
“We have to treat it like ‘The Purge,’” I say. “We can say or do anything we want … except talk about the fact that we are broken up.”
He nods. “Deal.”
We decide to walk to the Grove. It was our move: a 20-minute stroll to the mall to catch a movie. He holds my hand on the way, more tenderly than he ever did while we were together. As we wait for the light to change, he stares at my face like he’s trying to memorize it.
“My plan is working!” I think. I can’t help but smile.
As we walk down the cobblestone street of the Grove, Matt mentions that he is looking forward to meeting people at his best friend’s wedding. It was an invite I was hoping for but never got. I picture him in a tux laughing with a beautiful girl on the dance floor, of course.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, turning back toward home.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the movie.”
At the AMC bar, Matt orders a beer. I choose the “Love Potion,” noted on the chalkboard sign as an early Valentine’s Day special.
The bartender hesitates. “I’m supposed to be closed.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just have the beer.” I’ll take what I can get.
We share a giant tub of popcorn, stealing kisses throughout the previews. We must look like the type of couple that would inspire envy, not one in the process of saying goodbye.
On the walk home, we duck into the Kibitz Room, the dive bar off Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue.
“We just broke up!” we announce as we slide onto our barstools. Cheers erupt. Someone sends over shots.
“To your breakup!”
A few drinks in, I’m kissing Matt’s cheek, telling him I’ll never be able to look at another man. That I’m going to a nunnery. I tell him I love him. For the first time, he tells me he loves me too.
The woman sitting next to me leans close. “You’re not going to break up, are you?” I smile. “Classic,” she says.
A live band of middle-aged men begins jamming to an endless chorus of, “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.” I grab a string of balloons and wrap them around Matt, spinning him in circles on the dance floor. “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.”
We fall out of the bar into the quiet evening. “Wasn’t that crazy they were playing that song?” I ask.
“What song?” he replies.
“That Rolling Stones song,” I say.
“I didn’t notice.”
He stays the night. We hold onto each other like he’s headed off to war. As I drift off to sleep, I think, “If these are not strong romantic feelings, I have no idea what is.”
The next morning, we decide to watch “Tommy Boy.” He hands me a cup of coffee and settles onto the couch, putting his feet up on the ottoman. He is calm, no longer tearful. Whatever urgency he felt the night before is gone.
“Do you want to cuddle until I have to go?” he asks.
I sit up. “You’re leaving? For good?”
But he’s already on his phone, getting ready for what’s next.
I’ve since blocked his number. I’m mostly living the self-fulfilling prophecy of the nunnery, though I have recently made a Bumble profile.
Sometimes I think of that night and the way I was convinced that if I got everything right, if the night felt like us at our best, it might unlock the same passion in him I felt so strongly. But by morning, nothing had changed. I postponed my grief for a night, but it was waiting for me at the door.
My new Bumble profile includes the prompt, “Describe your perfect date.”
“A walk to the Grove, a movie over a shared tub of popcorn, and a stop at the Kibitz Room on the way home.”
The author is a staff writer on the Apple TV show “Platonic.” She lives in West Hollywood. She’s on Instagram: @reeshmeese.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
I’m driving down Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Los Angeles, listening to Matt’s proposal over my car speaker, my eyes blurry from crying.
“What would you say to one final date?” he asks.
He had broken off our seven-month relationship the day before, revealing he had never developed “strong romantic feelings” for me. Brutal. “Could we still hang out as friends?” he had asked through tears. “I need you.”
Yesterday I was stoic. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me, you don’t get the pleasure of my company,” I had said. It was the kind of line a Kerry Washington character delivers.
Now, as I take a turn too fast, I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. I agree to one final date. This could be one last chance to change his mind.
I had felt “strong romantic feelings” from the moment Matt had let me cut in front of him at the water station at 4100 Bar.
“What a gentleman,” I remarked.
“I’m from the South,” he replied, proudly adjusting his hat.
When he continued the conversation outside, I tried to shake him, sure there was some sort of mistake. But he trailed me like a duckling. Finally, he suggested we make out. I, very much out of character, agreed.
While I tried to sneak out the next morning, he proposed we get brunch. Somehow, we were both reading Bob Odenkirk’s memoir and had the same favorite TV show, “Fleabag.” And we were both in our 30s, balancing inconsistent comedy work with day jobs.
We spent our early days saying yes to everything — impromptu concerts, long walks to Echo Park Lake, Arts District bar-hopping — until it felt strange to be alone again. In our first month of dating, I unknowingly gave him COVID-19. We spent a week straight in bed together recovering and bingeing “Yellowjackets.”
But as time went on, Matt was cagey around his phone and reluctant to call me his girlfriend. When I told him I loved him one morning, he said he needed more time, sending me crying into the kitchen in my underwear. Finally, at the end of January, he broke it all off.
I don’t tell anyone about the final date or my plan to win him back. I know it’s not a good idea — and I know I’m going to do it anyway. I will be the easy, breezy dream date.
Matt knocks at my apartment. Instead of meeting him at the door with an embrace like usual, I casually yell from the kitchen, “It’s open!” I’m making guacamole, wearing winged black eyeliner and Utah curls, trying to steady my hands.
“Are we going to be able to have fun tonight?” he asks.
“We have to treat it like ‘The Purge,’” I say. “We can say or do anything we want … except talk about the fact that we are broken up.”
He nods. “Deal.”
We decide to walk to the Grove. It was our move: a 20-minute stroll to the mall to catch a movie. He holds my hand on the way, more tenderly than he ever did while we were together. As we wait for the light to change, he stares at my face like he’s trying to memorize it.
“My plan is working!” I think. I can’t help but smile.
As we walk down the cobblestone street of the Grove, Matt mentions that he is looking forward to meeting people at his best friend’s wedding. It was an invite I was hoping for but never got. I picture him in a tux laughing with a beautiful girl on the dance floor, of course.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, turning back toward home.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the movie.”
At the AMC bar, Matt orders a beer. I choose the “Love Potion,” noted on the chalkboard sign as an early Valentine’s Day special.
The bartender hesitates. “I’m supposed to be closed.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just have the beer.” I’ll take what I can get.
We share a giant tub of popcorn, stealing kisses throughout the previews. We must look like the type of couple that would inspire envy, not one in the process of saying goodbye.
On the walk home, we duck into the Kibitz Room, the dive bar off Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue.
“We just broke up!” we announce as we slide onto our barstools. Cheers erupt. Someone sends over shots.
“To your breakup!”
A few drinks in, I’m kissing Matt’s cheek, telling him I’ll never be able to look at another man. That I’m going to a nunnery. I tell him I love him. For the first time, he tells me he loves me too.
The woman sitting next to me leans close. “You’re not going to break up, are you?” I smile. “Classic,” she says.
A live band of middle-aged men begins jamming to an endless chorus of, “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.” I grab a string of balloons and wrap them around Matt, spinning him in circles on the dance floor. “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.”
We fall out of the bar into the quiet evening. “Wasn’t that crazy they were playing that song?” I ask.
“What song?” he replies.
“That Rolling Stones song,” I say.
“I didn’t notice.”
He stays the night. We hold onto each other like he’s headed off to war. As I drift off to sleep, I think, “If these are not strong romantic feelings, I have no idea what is.”
The next morning, we decide to watch “Tommy Boy.” He hands me a cup of coffee and settles onto the couch, putting his feet up on the ottoman. He is calm, no longer tearful. Whatever urgency he felt the night before is gone.
“Do you want to cuddle until I have to go?” he asks.
I sit up. “You’re leaving? For good?”
But he’s already on his phone, getting ready for what’s next.
I’ve since blocked his number. I’m mostly living the self-fulfilling prophecy of the nunnery, though I have recently made a Bumble profile.
Sometimes I think of that night and the way I was convinced that if I got everything right, if the night felt like us at our best, it might unlock the same passion in him I felt so strongly. But by morning, nothing had changed. I postponed my grief for a night, but it was waiting for me at the door.
My new Bumble profile includes the prompt, “Describe your perfect date.”
“A walk to the Grove, a movie over a shared tub of popcorn, and a stop at the Kibitz Room on the way home.”
The author is a staff writer on the Apple TV show “Platonic.” She lives in West Hollywood. She’s on Instagram: @reeshmeese.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
I’m driving down Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Los Angeles, listening to Matt’s proposal over my car speaker, my eyes blurry from crying.
“What would you say to one final date?” he asks.
He had broken off our seven-month relationship the day before, revealing he had never developed “strong romantic feelings” for me. Brutal. “Could we still hang out as friends?” he had asked through tears. “I need you.”
Yesterday I was stoic. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me, you don’t get the pleasure of my company,” I had said. It was the kind of line a Kerry Washington character delivers.
Now, as I take a turn too fast, I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. I agree to one final date. This could be one last chance to change his mind.
I had felt “strong romantic feelings” from the moment Matt had let me cut in front of him at the water station at 4100 Bar.
“What a gentleman,” I remarked.
“I’m from the South,” he replied, proudly adjusting his hat.
When he continued the conversation outside, I tried to shake him, sure there was some sort of mistake. But he trailed me like a duckling. Finally, he suggested we make out. I, very much out of character, agreed.
While I tried to sneak out the next morning, he proposed we get brunch. Somehow, we were both reading Bob Odenkirk’s memoir and had the same favorite TV show, “Fleabag.” And we were both in our 30s, balancing inconsistent comedy work with day jobs.
We spent our early days saying yes to everything — impromptu concerts, long walks to Echo Park Lake, Arts District bar-hopping — until it felt strange to be alone again. In our first month of dating, I unknowingly gave him COVID-19. We spent a week straight in bed together recovering and bingeing “Yellowjackets.”
But as time went on, Matt was cagey around his phone and reluctant to call me his girlfriend. When I told him I loved him one morning, he said he needed more time, sending me crying into the kitchen in my underwear. Finally, at the end of January, he broke it all off.
I don’t tell anyone about the final date or my plan to win him back. I know it’s not a good idea — and I know I’m going to do it anyway. I will be the easy, breezy dream date.
Matt knocks at my apartment. Instead of meeting him at the door with an embrace like usual, I casually yell from the kitchen, “It’s open!” I’m making guacamole, wearing winged black eyeliner and Utah curls, trying to steady my hands.
“Are we going to be able to have fun tonight?” he asks.
“We have to treat it like ‘The Purge,’” I say. “We can say or do anything we want … except talk about the fact that we are broken up.”
He nods. “Deal.”
We decide to walk to the Grove. It was our move: a 20-minute stroll to the mall to catch a movie. He holds my hand on the way, more tenderly than he ever did while we were together. As we wait for the light to change, he stares at my face like he’s trying to memorize it.
“My plan is working!” I think. I can’t help but smile.
As we walk down the cobblestone street of the Grove, Matt mentions that he is looking forward to meeting people at his best friend’s wedding. It was an invite I was hoping for but never got. I picture him in a tux laughing with a beautiful girl on the dance floor, of course.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, turning back toward home.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the movie.”
At the AMC bar, Matt orders a beer. I choose the “Love Potion,” noted on the chalkboard sign as an early Valentine’s Day special.
The bartender hesitates. “I’m supposed to be closed.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just have the beer.” I’ll take what I can get.
We share a giant tub of popcorn, stealing kisses throughout the previews. We must look like the type of couple that would inspire envy, not one in the process of saying goodbye.
On the walk home, we duck into the Kibitz Room, the dive bar off Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue.
“We just broke up!” we announce as we slide onto our barstools. Cheers erupt. Someone sends over shots.
“To your breakup!”
A few drinks in, I’m kissing Matt’s cheek, telling him I’ll never be able to look at another man. That I’m going to a nunnery. I tell him I love him. For the first time, he tells me he loves me too.
The woman sitting next to me leans close. “You’re not going to break up, are you?” I smile. “Classic,” she says.
A live band of middle-aged men begins jamming to an endless chorus of, “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.” I grab a string of balloons and wrap them around Matt, spinning him in circles on the dance floor. “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.”
We fall out of the bar into the quiet evening. “Wasn’t that crazy they were playing that song?” I ask.
“What song?” he replies.
“That Rolling Stones song,” I say.
“I didn’t notice.”
He stays the night. We hold onto each other like he’s headed off to war. As I drift off to sleep, I think, “If these are not strong romantic feelings, I have no idea what is.”
The next morning, we decide to watch “Tommy Boy.” He hands me a cup of coffee and settles onto the couch, putting his feet up on the ottoman. He is calm, no longer tearful. Whatever urgency he felt the night before is gone.
“Do you want to cuddle until I have to go?” he asks.
I sit up. “You’re leaving? For good?”
But he’s already on his phone, getting ready for what’s next.
I’ve since blocked his number. I’m mostly living the self-fulfilling prophecy of the nunnery, though I have recently made a Bumble profile.
Sometimes I think of that night and the way I was convinced that if I got everything right, if the night felt like us at our best, it might unlock the same passion in him I felt so strongly. But by morning, nothing had changed. I postponed my grief for a night, but it was waiting for me at the door.
My new Bumble profile includes the prompt, “Describe your perfect date.”
“A walk to the Grove, a movie over a shared tub of popcorn, and a stop at the Kibitz Room on the way home.”
The author is a staff writer on the Apple TV show “Platonic.” She lives in West Hollywood. She’s on Instagram: @reeshmeese.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
I’m driving down Laurel Canyon Boulevard in Los Angeles, listening to Matt’s proposal over my car speaker, my eyes blurry from crying.
“What would you say to one final date?” he asks.
He had broken off our seven-month relationship the day before, revealing he had never developed “strong romantic feelings” for me. Brutal. “Could we still hang out as friends?” he had asked through tears. “I need you.”
Yesterday I was stoic. “You don’t want to be in a relationship with me, you don’t get the pleasure of my company,” I had said. It was the kind of line a Kerry Washington character delivers.
Now, as I take a turn too fast, I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. I agree to one final date. This could be one last chance to change his mind.
I had felt “strong romantic feelings” from the moment Matt had let me cut in front of him at the water station at 4100 Bar.
“What a gentleman,” I remarked.
“I’m from the South,” he replied, proudly adjusting his hat.
When he continued the conversation outside, I tried to shake him, sure there was some sort of mistake. But he trailed me like a duckling. Finally, he suggested we make out. I, very much out of character, agreed.
While I tried to sneak out the next morning, he proposed we get brunch. Somehow, we were both reading Bob Odenkirk’s memoir and had the same favorite TV show, “Fleabag.” And we were both in our 30s, balancing inconsistent comedy work with day jobs.
We spent our early days saying yes to everything — impromptu concerts, long walks to Echo Park Lake, Arts District bar-hopping — until it felt strange to be alone again. In our first month of dating, I unknowingly gave him COVID-19. We spent a week straight in bed together recovering and bingeing “Yellowjackets.”
But as time went on, Matt was cagey around his phone and reluctant to call me his girlfriend. When I told him I loved him one morning, he said he needed more time, sending me crying into the kitchen in my underwear. Finally, at the end of January, he broke it all off.
I don’t tell anyone about the final date or my plan to win him back. I know it’s not a good idea — and I know I’m going to do it anyway. I will be the easy, breezy dream date.
Matt knocks at my apartment. Instead of meeting him at the door with an embrace like usual, I casually yell from the kitchen, “It’s open!” I’m making guacamole, wearing winged black eyeliner and Utah curls, trying to steady my hands.
“Are we going to be able to have fun tonight?” he asks.
“We have to treat it like ‘The Purge,’” I say. “We can say or do anything we want … except talk about the fact that we are broken up.”
He nods. “Deal.”
We decide to walk to the Grove. It was our move: a 20-minute stroll to the mall to catch a movie. He holds my hand on the way, more tenderly than he ever did while we were together. As we wait for the light to change, he stares at my face like he’s trying to memorize it.
“My plan is working!” I think. I can’t help but smile.
As we walk down the cobblestone street of the Grove, Matt mentions that he is looking forward to meeting people at his best friend’s wedding. It was an invite I was hoping for but never got. I picture him in a tux laughing with a beautiful girl on the dance floor, of course.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I say, turning back toward home.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the movie.”
At the AMC bar, Matt orders a beer. I choose the “Love Potion,” noted on the chalkboard sign as an early Valentine’s Day special.
The bartender hesitates. “I’m supposed to be closed.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just have the beer.” I’ll take what I can get.
We share a giant tub of popcorn, stealing kisses throughout the previews. We must look like the type of couple that would inspire envy, not one in the process of saying goodbye.
On the walk home, we duck into the Kibitz Room, the dive bar off Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue.
“We just broke up!” we announce as we slide onto our barstools. Cheers erupt. Someone sends over shots.
“To your breakup!”
A few drinks in, I’m kissing Matt’s cheek, telling him I’ll never be able to look at another man. That I’m going to a nunnery. I tell him I love him. For the first time, he tells me he loves me too.
The woman sitting next to me leans close. “You’re not going to break up, are you?” I smile. “Classic,” she says.
A live band of middle-aged men begins jamming to an endless chorus of, “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.” I grab a string of balloons and wrap them around Matt, spinning him in circles on the dance floor. “Because I used to love her, but it’s all over now.”
We fall out of the bar into the quiet evening. “Wasn’t that crazy they were playing that song?” I ask.
“What song?” he replies.
“That Rolling Stones song,” I say.
“I didn’t notice.”
He stays the night. We hold onto each other like he’s headed off to war. As I drift off to sleep, I think, “If these are not strong romantic feelings, I have no idea what is.”
The next morning, we decide to watch “Tommy Boy.” He hands me a cup of coffee and settles onto the couch, putting his feet up on the ottoman. He is calm, no longer tearful. Whatever urgency he felt the night before is gone.
“Do you want to cuddle until I have to go?” he asks.
I sit up. “You’re leaving? For good?”
But he’s already on his phone, getting ready for what’s next.
I’ve since blocked his number. I’m mostly living the self-fulfilling prophecy of the nunnery, though I have recently made a Bumble profile.
Sometimes I think of that night and the way I was convinced that if I got everything right, if the night felt like us at our best, it might unlock the same passion in him I felt so strongly. But by morning, nothing had changed. I postponed my grief for a night, but it was waiting for me at the door.
My new Bumble profile includes the prompt, “Describe your perfect date.”
“A walk to the Grove, a movie over a shared tub of popcorn, and a stop at the Kibitz Room on the way home.”
The author is a staff writer on the Apple TV show “Platonic.” She lives in West Hollywood. She’s on Instagram: @reeshmeese.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
