A, as I knew her through OKCupid, suggested two possible meeting spots. “One is quieter,” she wrote, “the other louder and more lively.” A quieter bar seemed like a more adult choice and therefore the right answer.

I push through the door and the heavy curtain and see her sitting at a small round table near the front. “Hey,” I say, breezy, as though we know each other, as if this isn’t our first encounter.

She plays along with the instant familiarity. “I almost just said hi to someone else,” she tells me, smiling to break the awkwardness, “thinking it was you.” I quickly glance from side to side, searching for someone who looks like me. She already has a drink in front of her. “There’s no waiter,” she says.

“Cool,” I say. “Be right back then.” I go to the bar to order. I’m a little hungry and afraid of getting too drunk, so I ask for a vodka cranberry, thinking it has more sustenance. When I return to the table with my drink she teases me playfully for the collegiate choice. She asks many questions in rapid succession; she seems simultaneously inquisitive and nervous. Where am I originally from? Nablus, I say. Her best friend spent a few years living there, she worked at the cultural affairs center. It’s an uncanny coincidence, one that creates community.

Soon it’s my turn to ask questions, and I find that I am genuinely curious to know everything about her. Her name is Anouk—I realize I didn’t know this until now. She’s half French, half American, and she grew up in Paris. She dropped out of her comparative lit PhD program to become a filmmaker. Her first feature premiered at the IFC.

She feels warm to me, as though we’ve always known each other, but the familiarity makes her exciting. There is a lull in conversation between drinks two and three, one that momentarily makes me panic and worry that we shouldn’t have ordered a third round. I say something to fill the space. “You’re fun to talk to.” She half smiles and says nothing. It’s an underwhelming compliment.

We talk about suffering from morning melancholy. I ask her if she thinks there’s a solution. “I don’t know,” she says. “Probably a relationship?” I don’t mention that I just ended one. That in each of my relationships I’ve woken up to despair. I do bring up Tara, though—I can’t resist mentioning her. I still think of her more than I should, more than she likely thinks of me, but distance is helping. Quitting social media helps. And the possibility of someone else helps, too.