I came home after that first date in the early hours of the morning, the sky a breathy blue, the 4 train empty. I had to be in the office in four hours and I’d barely slept, my back cramping from the couch we’d both passed out on.

But I wasn’t tired.

Instead, I gently removed my clothes and lay on my duvet spread-eagle, one hand gently placed across my vulva, playing with the thick tuft of pubic hair I’d left toward the top, and looked up at the shadows shifting on my ceiling.

It had been a good night. Drowsy and gentle, rough when I wanted it. Playful, even. More intimate, somehow, than other one-night stands I’d had. The silver-framed photos on a table of his daughter. The pillows picked out by his ex-wife’s decorator.

He was helpless, too—before he fell asleep, fast and neat, no sloppy snoring or drool. He said he was lonely, a whisper of a confession, before he slipped his arms around me, cuddled me close like we were young lovers in a college twin, kissed my spine and made me shiver.

I slipped out without saying goodbye, his chiseled face so placid in the twinkling dawn light, his trousers and Brooks Brothers button-down thrown ruthlessly in the corner of the room. His hands clasped across his chest, tightly, as if holding on to a secret.

Eventually, I began hearing the sounds of Quinn waking up, loud cursing as he dropped something on the floor of our kitchen. He startled when I padded in, folding myself into the sofa.

“You just came home, didn’t you?”

I nodded, twisting my hair, watching as he stirred sugar into his coffee. “And you didn’t say goodbye to him.” I nodded again and he clucked his tongue in agitation. “Men aren’t as hardened as you think they are. It’s nice to make your departure known every once in a while.” He poured me a cup of coffee with a drop of cream and handed it over.

“Vulnerability with these guys takes too much effort.” I sipped, burned my tongue. “Besides, it’s not like I’ve done an Irish exit recently. I haven’t gone on a date in months.”

Quinn fiddled with his phone, putting on an NPR podcast through our speakers. It occurred to me that I was disrupting his routine, the quiet hour he cherished before he had to get showered and dressed. “Yes, but before that. You were on dates three, four times a week. And how many did you ghost?”