Some day, when I have an adult [male] friend nearby, we will go on dates, and meet spontaneously after work for drinks that lead to an early (or late) dinner, or a lone beer at a grubby watering hole.
I will be so practiced by then from all these 15-or-so years of dining alone. I could write a guide for newly divorced women on how to sit comfortably in rooms full of quietly dining strangers, and boisterous over-served late-night tables of Date Night couples away from the children.
Someday, there will be hushed conversations and football season goofing off and holiday rabble rousing and birthday celebrating and going out for no other reason than to do so and see what we might see. Or staying in, plain and simple and as satisfying as clean sheets and a good book, or perfect soup. Or snow.
This singular entity, my Party of One, finally fits without tugging; and in my undomesticated state of adult-less living, I ask that we go slow. Like “separate tables” slow. Then consider maybe closing the gap if we like each other that much to share a table and a check, or a walk in the snow.