By JASON MASEKO

At the beinning of this year, I went on a really, really good date. It was with a boy named Tavish. He was tall, had the cutest smile anyone can imagine and had a particular way with words that almost made me forget his homegrown American twang. We had dinner, strolled to a Starbucks at 21h00, and played arcade games while a drunk man excitedly entertained us with his life story.

Now it’s 22h00, we’re sitting on a bench, chatting it up, lapsing into comfortable silences, and feeling the warmth of each other’s thighs. I could’ve kissed him and he could’ve kissed me, but by the time I hugged him before he slipped into his Uber, the driver serving a healthy amount of side-eye, neither of us had made a move. I went home with lips still Vaselined for the gods and a hand wanting to slap my own forehead at the certainty that I would never see this foreigner again; a lost opportunity, by all accounts.

Why hadn’t I kissed him, right there on the bench? Perhaps it was because, at that moment, being brave was big and it was weighing me down.