Finally, I arrive at the restaurant. The Alum wants to order a bottle of wine, but that seems like too much of a commitment, so I demur and say I prefer mixed drinks. I have no idea what mixed drink to order, so I chat with the bartender for a bit in an effort to decide. He asks me what TV shows I like and I say Mad Men, so he brings me a Sidecar. It’s Retro, the bartender says. You’ll like it.

The place is busy, noisy. I can mostly hear The Alum, but not entirely. We chat first about my divorce. I don’t get into the details, providing just the minimum information. He listens to the facts, and seems to file them away, not asking too much, just listening.

He tells me about his new job. He found the job through a personal referral, and is very happy there. He tells me about the interview process.

Every detail.

I order another drink, and though I liked The Sidecar, it’s making me fantasize about Don Draper, so I ask the bartender to surprise me with something different. He makes something up on the spot, involving a mix of things I wish I’d asked him to write down, because it was good and I could not hear what he said was in it over the din.

The Alum and I  move on to other topics. We’re probably due for another alumni event, so I ask if he has suggestions, knowing he will. He suggests a pizza place that is supposed to be really good. I don’t doubt that he’s right:  he’s from New York, and New Yorkers know pizza.

It is also possibly the least-conveniently located place I imagine. But he says it’s worth the trip, and tells me about it to persuade me: It has old pinball and Donkey Kong machines. He tells me the story of how he found the place the first time – off the beaten track as it is. He tells me everything about it.

Every detail.

It’s not an unpleasant conversation, but it’s becoming a long one. It feels a bit like a math test where you’ve been told to show your work. I wouldn’t mind that, but the subject matter feels like it’s more suited to a multiple choice test.

Bubble in, I think.

It’s becoming late and there’s no obvious point of exit. Everything I say prompts a response, a story, even if it’s a remark that is clearly intended to wind things down. But  I can’t be out all night – even on a weekend, which it isn’t.

I finally get up rather abruptly, and say, Thanks so much, but I have to go home to my child, she has school tomorrow.

He seems disappointed, but insists on picking up the check. He lingers at the bar and since I realize it will take a very long time to actually exit with him, I decide to exit alone.

It feels rude, but it also feels like a boundary, and that’s the thought I savor as I drive home, carefully avoiding the fake snow and manic, dancing nutcrackers.

Here’s a tip: If you have plans to see someone you are anxious to see, texting them beforehand will not speed the meeting’s arrival.

I pull myself together after saying a silent prayer for the injured dog,  and I get ready to go. The process is slowed down by texts with traffic updates; I let him know I’m running late.

I’m finally in the car and text: I’m on my way.

He’s already there and texts that. He texts me where he’s sitting at the bar. He texts me where he found free parking nearby. He texts me they have a great wine list. He texts me that he ordered beer anyway. He texts me to ask if he should order a drink so that it’s waiting for me.

This is all very nice, but it’s illegal to text while driving in this state, so I’m not even replying except for the occasional “k” when I’m at a stoplight.

I hit downtown, close to where we’re meeting, and try to find his text about the parking. I think I’m following the directions, and find myself passing the bar, circling the block, and then sent off in the opposite direction of where I want to be. I’m in the center of town, where all the traffic is.

Also, it’s snowing. Except it isn’t snowing. It’s not cold enough for snow.

I’m stopped in motionless traffic now, looking at fake snow swirling around my car. So is everyone else, so it’s impossible to do anything else.

Then I hear the thump of music: Loud, rockin’ Christmas music being blasted into the street. There are holiday lights everywhere, and big displays on the sidewalks on which guys dressed as Nutcrackers are dancing enthusiastically. In the swirling fake snow.

Throngs of pedestrians gather to watch the spectacle.

I drive further and further away from my destination. It’s the only way the traffic will let me go.

It’s December and holiday social madness has hit my calendar: This year, I decided not to decline a single invitation. My social circle needs widening. I’m booked up on all the weekend evenings and most of the days, too.  So, The Alum and I agree to meet at a wine bar on a Tuesday evening.

I feel a bit odd but I remind myself, it’s just a glass of wine. Not to mention, I need the dating practice. The match.com guys didn’t feel like practice. They felt   like auditions for a reality show.

Tuesday evening arrives and I’m rushing around after work: Rush to school to pick up The Child, feed her, feed The Dog, get ready. Text message arrive: he’s running early, there’s no bridge traffic like he expected.

I hear a screech and a thump outside my window. There’s a line of cars in the dark and drizzle, and at the front, a golden retriever struggling to get up. The owner is there, and someone I assume is the driver talking to him. I can’t hear them, but I can see, it’s frantic.

I do hear the yelp of pain as the dog is picked up; the driver helps them into his car and they drive off.

The Child comes in; she heard it too. What happened? she wants to know.

I don’t want to tell her, but I do. There’s nothing we can do, I tell her, except hope he’s okay. Then I start to lecture her about sidewalk safety.

She tells me to please get dressed and go out. She already knows this stuff, she says.

I want to stay home.

I want to wrap her and The Dog both in bubble wrap.

But I keep going.