Three stops early

You sent your friend the name of the bar before you walked in, the way you always do now. 'Here. Text you by nine.' She replied with a thumbs up and a small ghost, which is your shared code for I will come and haunt this man if necessary.

The first ten minutes are fine. He is on time. He is taller than his photos suggest and shorter on questions than his messages did. Then he leans in and lowers his voice, as if he is about to say something kind, and asks whether you have 'had everything done'.

You feel the old calculation start. Laugh it off. Change the subject. Give him one more chance, because he paid for the drinks, because leaving would make a scene, because maybe he did not mean it that way.

And then, for once, you do not do the calculation. You finish the sentence you were saying about your job, because it was a good sentence. You put your glass down. You say, 'I'm going to head off. I don't think this is a good fit.' No apology. No reason.

He says something about being honest, about just being curious. You are already standing. Your coat is on. The door is right there, where it always was.

On the street the air is cold and ordinary. You text your friend: 'Leaving. He asked about surgery.' The ghost comes back immediately, followed by 'Where are you, I'm making tea.'

You get off the tram three stops early because her flat is closer than yours, and because it is nice to walk towards someone who is on your side. The date lasted twenty-two minutes. It is, you think, the best thing you have done all week.