Let me set the scene.
Good Friday, last year. I was driving a little too fast through the backroads of Glenora because I live like I drive: fast, fierce, and mildly chaotic. Flashing lights. Pulled over. Heart pounding. A cop approached my window, and instead of the usual grim-faced scolding, I got kind brown eyes and a smile that said, “You’re lucky I’ve got a sense of humour.”
We flirted. He let me off with a warning. I drove away with a weird little grin, thinking, Did I just get away with speeding because of a vibe?
Nearly a year later, we matched on Hinge.
He remembered me.
I remembered everything.
Let’s call him Constable Cutie.
Our first date was great, easy conversation, laughter that didn’t feel forced, and a surprising sense of calm. We went for walks, we shared stories, and for a brief moment, it felt like something with potential. The kind of quiet potential that doesn’t shout, but hums gently under the surface.
But sometimes, the hum stays a hum. It doesn’t build. It doesn’t catch.
Our Wednesday dinner date was… fine. He’d just finished a 12-hour shift after two weeks off, and looked like a man in dire need of sleep, not small talk. He was tired. I was understanding. He cut the night short after 45 minutes, apologising for his exhaustion but still keen to lock in a weekend brunch.
So I said yes. I gave it another shot.
Saturday morning rolled around. Brunch was decent, conversation still flowed, but something felt muted. Like we were both going through the motions, hoping the flicker would finally ignite.
Spoiler: it didn’t.
And on the walk back to the car because apparently emotional drop-kicks are best served en route to the parking lot he turned to me and said:
“I’m just not feeling a spark.”
And honestly? Neither was I.
But even mutual agreement has a sting when someone beats you to saying it. It brushes up against your ego and whispers:
“What was wrong with me?”
(The answer, by the way, is nothing.)
I smiled, thanked him for being honest, and walked away with that weird little ache that sits somewhere between disappointment and relief.
A year ago, Constable Cutie let me off with a warning.
This year, I let him off just as gently.
No hard feelings.
No spark.
No regrets.
Next.
