We Are Never Meeting in Real Life.

by Samantha Irby

I dipped a toe in the water and almost got frostbite. In six months I’d gone from heartbroken baby animal to FACEBOOK DELETER AND BLOCKER, and the response I received to my “I’m ready to be friends again!” e-mail was terse and cold and suspicious. Because, in Fred’s mind, we still could’ve been friends all along. He didn’t not love me; I didn’t not love him: we just weren’t each other’s person. But, reasonable though it may have been, that talk had left me touchy and defensive, so I let his e-mails and texts go unanswered while I licked my “never gonna spend the morning cuddled at the Hyde Park library together” wounds. I didn’t take any parting shots before quietly scrubbing that picture of us at Big Star from my timeline, no nasty voice mail warning him never to call me ever again, and I assumed that guaranteed my seamless reentry into his life when I finally got enough distance from the hurt to allow him back into mine. I suggested Au Cheval for dinner, because that place is loud and sexy and dark and I knew that Fred would pay for however many $14 cocktails I ordered plus maybe a cheeseburger. I made sure to wear basic, dishwater-gray friendclothes and my house glasses. I probably didn’t even wear deodorant. Because this was a friend meeting, between friends. When he walked in I was flooded with relief, and when he bent to wrap his arms firmly around me I nearly burst into tears. I’m not often very good at exposing my innermost feelings: I am self-deprecating; I avoid ...