Dear Pear Guy,
“I’m so glad you look like your photos,” you said, in a way that suggested that definitely wasn’t always the case. You were cute in that skinny tattooed skater kind of way.
After a drink and the obligatory first date nerves, we got out of our own way and the night disappeared in a glorious blackhole of conversation, vodka and good food. You texted me as soon as we parted: “You’re so lovely.” You were unabashed with your feelings and I liked it. A lot.
On our second date, we watched 500 Days of Summer and you stroked my hair like a cat. On our third date, you introduced me to your friends. “They like you better than they like me,” you said afterwards.
There was no fourth date, only a message saying you felt like you were dating “above your station” with me. The old you deserve better charade.
I was on a new date when you texted, “Do you like pears?” Dumbfounded, I replied that I did. “I want to make you a cake,” you said.
Three days later, no word and definitely no cake. I called you out on it. You said you burnt it.
You messaged me on NYE and said you wished “all good things” for me. I tried to wish the same for you.