“How do you date? Like, how does anyone even do it anymore?” he asked, as we turned off a dirt road, leaving the home we once shared. From the open expanse of country, we headed north towards the confines of the suburbs.
He goes on about a new girl he’s dating. Her name is Kristy. He describes her as a habitual liar and bad in bed.
Sounds unfortunate.
We’ve reached a point in our relationship where we can ask each other personal questions again. Its been a year and a half since we separated, but the decade of friendship before dating and raising kids together laid a semi-decent foundation for us to start over from a place of reciprocity.
Being someone who, before him, was a serial dater and relationship hopper, I’m assuming he thinks I have an experienced answer to his question. The last 18 months of being single, truly single, has done something to me however. I have found a simplicity and comfort in my solitude that I’m not quite ready to compromise for testing the waters of a new relationship anytime soon. (Or maybe I’ve just sunk so deep into my current maladaptive behaviors that I am completely dubious to it all.)
“Easy, don’t.” I replied back as I turned to look at him with a laugh.
He thinks I’m joking.
I’m not.