ashley chase

I feel like I’ve lived this situation multiple times. I’m sitting in a generic restaurant, sipping water to mask my jitters, as I’m staring down a guy I’ll probably never talk to again after tonight. It’s not bad or good in any way — it’s just one of those mediocre dates that gets thrown onto the heap of dirty mental laundry that’ll get washed out of my memory in a few weeks’ time. When I collapse onto my bed at the end of the night from the exhaustion of social propriety, I get a follow-up text from the friend who set up the whole affair and just feel baffled they’re unaware enough of my tastes to think that would have ever worked out.