I have mentioned you twice so far in this conversation, neither time by name. The first time was when I talked about the script for a play you directed. The second time was when I brought up a Leonard Cohen vinyl I got for my brother when you and I went record shopping. My date and I are watching a TV show. It is one you do not have the same nostalgia bias for as he and I do. It is a simple first date, but it works for me. I was never a romantic. You were romantic enough for both of us.
           “How many siblings do you have?” he asks.
           “Just the one,” I answer.
           “Older or younger?”
           “Older.”
           “I’m the middle of three.” he says.
           A door creaks from down the hall. My roommate walks past the living room in pink fuzzy slippers. She says hello.
           “Nice to meet you,” he greets her with a smile. “How was your day?”
           She talks to us with a charming freshness. She is so young compared to him, me, and you. She is the age we were when we first met. He gives the appropriate responses with a smile on his face. When he mentions working in IT, something I find predictable, she asks him to help fix our printer. It is one of the only things occupying our new apartment.
           “Of course.” He immediately gets up and begins disentangling the cords, doing things I do not understand.
           She laughs at something he says, and she makes eye contact with me with an excited smile on her face. She likes him. She has never met you. She would love you. Everyone I know would love you. You never met any of the people in my life I love, but I wonder if they would be able to recognize that I see pieces of every single one of them in you.
           The printer successfully turns on. My roommate excitedly shrieks and jumps. “Thanks!” My roommate goes back to her room and he sits back down next to me on the couch. My date and I keep watching the show. I realize he is waiting to be acknowledged by me for what he has done so I thank him and he smiles.
           “I love this episode,” he says.
           “It reminds me of a movie my friend told me about.” That is the third time I mention you. “What movie?” he asks.
           I answer distractedly, shifting the blanket on my lap. I am wearing a short skirt I bought when we went shopping in your city—a city I am now too scared to visit again. I see his eyes sweep across my now-covered legs.
           “Is that offer to share a blanket still open?” He turns his body to face me.
           When I offered a blanket earlier, I meant his own, but I do not mind sharing. The fleece throw blanket is small, so I move closer to him because it does not hurt. Our thighs touch. He smells nice, like sandalwood soap, but sometimes I feel like I can still smell you on my skin.
           “Can I put my arm around you?” He asks.
           I nod and feel the comforting weight on my shoulders. I peer at his face as he is focused on the screen. He has a soft jaw and fluffy light brown hair. He is everything I once thought I was attracted to. Especially when I was the age my
roommate is. I would fantasize about large hands like his and the weight of someone much taller than me. Someone I was taught to be attracted to. You were none of those, but I craved you. As he rubs circles into my shoulder, I am all the more aware of the love bites you left hidden under my shirt that have not faded yet.
           ”What else do you do for fun?” he asks. It is good he asks me questions to get to know me rather than your aimless conversations.
          He is laughing at my jokes. One was a joke I told you. Your laugh was higher-pitched and went on for longer. I cannot tell if he is laughing because he finds me funny or if he is being polite. There are things I like about him, but I hate those traits because they do not belong to you. There are similarities: a love for rock music, a bright smile, and the occasional shared hobby. I choose to ignore them because they make me angry. I detest that I cannot find anything wrong with him except not being you.
           This guy would not read through a script with me in the middle of the night, running his hand up and down my legs as they rested in his lap. This guy would not take the time at the record store to show me cassettes of underground local bands that he had seen perform. He would find reading out loud embarrassing. He would only know the most well-known rock bands and would only listen to them on his phone. He was not the one there to remind me of all the things I used to like about life and starved myself of. He was not the one who, without even trying, helped me rebuild my self-worth until I found parts of me that I had not seen since I was as young and lively as my roommate.
           “I’m sorry but I’m getting really tired.” I give a genuine yawn.
           He is understanding, telling me that it is getting late, and helps me up from my spot to walk him to his car. The air outside has gotten colder now that the summer you and I had has ended. I wonder if the dynamic between you and I would have changed if it lasted until this season and further.
           His car, a white Honda Civic, is nice yet practical, unlike your old messy van with the four lighters in the cupholder.
           “This was nice,” I tell him. And I am not lying, but my expectations were low. Maybe unfairly so.
           I look up into his eyes and he is looking down into mine. I look down at his mouth and then back into his eyes again, making a clear signal. He looks at my mouth. It would be nothing compared to the first time you kissed me in that art museum, but I want to kiss him. I feel like I need to know what it is like to kiss every other person and wonder which kiss feels the closest to what you felt whenever you kissed me.
           I wait for a second, but we do not kiss. He probably wants to be the perfect gentleman for a first date. Instead, we give a simple hug goodbye.
           “Have a good night,” he says as he opens his car door.
           “You too.” I do not watch as he drives off.
           I walk around the block, past where a friend lives. All my friends know about you. Strangers know about you. I told everyone around me, desperate for advice but never listening. I amble back to my apartment and think about the date. I want to like him. I think he likes me, maybe he could love me. I once thought you could like me, and I did not think I would ever fall in love. I used to wonder if I was not made for love, but now it feels like you were made to be loved by me but not to love me back.
           Back at my apartment, my phone is on the couch where I was sitting. It vibrates and I stop for a second. I take a deep breath and crush my hope that the text is from you. It is a message from my date. He says he had fun and then follows up with a second message asking when we can meet next. Maybe he can be a long-term distraction. I stare blankly as I wait for my phone to load my calendar so I can let him know when I am free.

Abigail Martin recently rediscovered her love of writing. She spends her time pondering complex feelings and writing complex female characters.