A narrative of a lived experience. Violet tells the story of a man she met who calls himself Jack Stallings.
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Violet arrived a few minutes early and chose a low couch along the wall — a spot where she could see the door and steady her breathing. She hadn’t been on a first date in more than twenty‑five years. She wasn’t even sure this counted as one.
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After their first date, Violet considered her next steps carefully. She hadn’t even uconsidered dating until very recently, more than a year after she had moved out. Starting a new life had been time consuming and exhausting. She had not been on a date since college and she certainly had no experience with dating apps…
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After their second date on October 29, they continued texting late into the night. Jack sent a photo of two fried eggs in a pan. Violet thanked him for putting up with her “crazy stories” and said she’d had a great time. He said he enjoyed her stories — “most of them” — and that…
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When Jack invited her to an election night gathering — and when she realized she didn’t have the energy to drive across town — she asked him to pick her up. He said yes immediately. They had barely left her neighborhood when the car’s Bluetooth lit up with an incoming call.
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The morning after the election, Violet sent Jack a picture of a tiny penis figurine that she kept on her desk at work. “Here’s a dick pic to cheer you up.” The election still sat heavy over everything. Jack replied hours later with a heart reaction and, later that evening, a selfie accompanied by an…
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The sermon, the credo, the couch, the kissing, the groping, the way he had asked to hold her before she read the closest thing she had to a personal theology — all of it still lingered. Violet could feel the previous night moving around inside her, not as one clear thing but as pieces she…
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By the time Violet drove toward the park where they had planned to watch the sunset, she was nervous. Not in a warning-bell way. In a body way. The kind of nerves that came from anticipation, uncertainty, attraction, and the knowledge that the last few days had shifted something between them.
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The next morning, before dawn, she texted him. “I like when you sing sad songs to me.” She liked the way his sadness came through music. She liked the way he seemed to carry something bruised and beautiful inside him. She liked the songs he chose, and the way he sang them to her like…
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Violet did not initiate contact after the gazebo. On Wednesday, Jack sent her a face-in-the-clouds emoji. She responded, and the conversation continued. On Thursday, he reached out again. “I dislike rainy Thursdays when it’s dark at 5 o’clock.” Then he asked, “Interested in talking later?”
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By Monday, the door Violet thought had only cracked open was already being pushed wider. The day before had been strange and tender and easy in ways she had not expected. Jack had come into her world a little more. He had spent a morning at church with her. He had eaten with her, come…
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For a little while, it had felt easy again. The weekend had left traces behind. His shirt on the floor. His vest forgotten. The warmth of him still in the bed, still in the room, still lingering in the ordinary morning-after details. Violet found his things and texted him. He answered later that morning. “I’d…
