He picks up the goat cheese I brought and studies the wrapper longer than he needs to. “It’s a good thing this isn’t Camembert,” he says.

I latch on to what he said too quickly, eager for the awkward moment to pass. “What do you have against Camembert?”

“When I studied abroad in Paris, my friend and I rented this little flat in the Sixteenth,” he says. “We bought Camembert our first day there, and before we knew it, the entire place reeked of stinky cheese. We spent the first week in our apartment with all the windows open to air it out. It was January.”

“Ha.”

“Where did you study abroad?” he asks.

“I didn’t.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Another lull.

“I wanted to. Study abroad, that is. But the classes I wanted didn’t line up with the cities I was interested in, and so I figured it wasn’t worth it.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

Another lull. We both fidget with our food and sip our rosé.

“You brought Solo cups, huh?” he says, lifting an eyebrow.

I look down at my plastic cup. “Yeah?”

“I can’t remember the last time I drank out of one of these. Spring fling, senior year, maybe?” The memory of it makes him grin.

“Oh, come on, what else are you supposed to drink out of in the park?”

“Clear plastic cups,” he says simply, as if it’s that obvious. “Plastic wineglasses. Not . . . Solo cups.”

Another lull. A familiar wave of disappointment washes over me. I’ve been here before: cute guy, good on paper, flirty texts, zero chemistry in real life. I see the afternoon spinning out before me as a dull stretch of small talk ruining what should be the most glorious first weekend of spring. Without meaning to, I let out an audible sigh.

“I’m sorry, this shouldn’t be one of those dates,” he says, wincing. His brown eyes crinkle.

I’m embarrassed that he senses my disinterest.

“What do you mean?” I say, faking bewilderment.

“I mean, we don’t need to talk about dumb college stuff like semesters abroad and Solo cups. Tell me something that matters. Tell me more about what you do.”