I met you after dinner at Radicato. I’d promised myself I’d be someone who said yes more. Someone spontaneous.

You wore a blue shirt and green flannel,

describing your outfit as “very Colorado.” I had a plan: walk a little, say I was tired, go home, and eat the chocolate-covered raspberries in my freezer.

But something about you was comforting. You seemed like someone who’d be nice to waiters.

We walked and talked, and you laughed at more than a few of my jokes. That would’ve been enough to keep me around—but you were independently funny. I suggested we stop for a drink. You found the place: Molly Jack’s. You said you liked dive bars, and this one looked close enough. You led me to the back, decisively.

The bartender was a local who, as kindly as I can put it, spoke in a way that not even context clues could save. You ordered a beer. I ordered wine—regretfully. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t drink until after the New York bar exam, a month away. But I’d worked hard all week. And I liked you.

I told you everything—my job, my family, my exes. You listened like it was all worth hearing.

I learned a lot about you, too:

• You’re colorblind. Your college girlfriend once got mad when you didn’t realize her eyes were blue. It was part of her identity, you said.
• You wore an eye patch growing up to make your other eye stronger.
• You’re close to your family, though you had to move away from them to feel independent.
• You had health anxiety in college—the same kind I have. You thought you had meningitis, or were having a stroke. You’d drive to the hospital and sit in the parking lot, just in case.
• You buy clothes from Goodwill.
• You don’t have social media.

Three glasses of wine in, we admitted we “never did this.” I meant it—and I think you did, too. You said you’d had an excuse ready to leave—just like me—that your conference had an early call time. It really did. But it didn’t stop you from saying, in that sweet, kind-to-waiters voice:
Not to be presumptuous, but do you want to keep hanging out after this?

We spent the night together, holding hands on the way back to your hotel. You took the stairs with me—six flights—because I’d told you I was afraid of elevators. I didn’t have to remind you when we got there.

The sex was good. I wouldn’t normally say that in a story. But it was too good not to mention.

We spent the next night together, too. You scrolled aimlessly for a movie. We landed on Court TV but didn’t watch it. We talked for five hours. At some point, we both attempted to do a split (non-sexual, I swear—and neither of us could do one anyway).

You suggested coffee in the morning. I agreed. You told me to wake you if you snored. I agreed—but you did snore, a lot, and I didn’t wake you. I liked you too much.

We woke up too late for coffee. You offered me a ride home, but I figured if we were too late for coffee, we were probably too late for the ride—and maybe you were just offering because you’re the kind of person who’s nice to waiters.

Anyway, it was nice out. I said I’d walk.

We went down the six flights together, talking about nothing. You gave me a hug and a kiss goodbye, and said, “It was really nice meeting you.” You told me to let you know if I was ever in Boulder. I racked my mind, but couldn’t think of a reason I’d ever be in Boulder.

A few hours later, I knew we probably wouldn’t talk again. And that’s okay—because that’s what this was supposed to be: a spontaneous, short-term fling. A story you tell your friends over wine.

But I keep thinking about you—sitting alone in a hospital parking lot, convinced you were dying of meningitis. And I feel this sharp, quiet longing to be there.

Not as the girl from Molly Jack’s.
Not as a story.
Just someone in the passenger seat,
saying:

You’re okay.

You’re okay.

You’re okay.