“This coffee is really good,” I said out loud, and the man at the next table smiled. Amid the aroma of freshly baked bread, we had been exchanging glances for a while.
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Two strangers in a common place.
The waitress appeared to tell me that the man at the next table was sending me a lemon pie as a gift, without fear that I might be allergic to gluten or lactose. I accepted and remembered that typical phrase from some cafes: “We don’t have wifi, talk to each other.”
With a gesture, I invited him to sit with me and we introduced ourselves. That’s when I realized that his smile, his voice, and his gaze pleased me as much as I had imagined. A big step.
After a while, he confessed: “I don’t have social media.” My eyes lit up.
“And how do you manage? If a large part of our life today happens through a screen,” I asked him. I didn’t know anyone—besides my dad, who is 80 years old—who used their phone just to talk, send WhatsApps, or order pizza.
He told me he needed to slow down his thoughts, enjoy moments more without the constant interruptions of notifications or the anxiety of feeling like he was missing out on something.
The idea of a one hundred percent analog relationship seemed exciting to me. What would it be like to flirt again without a phone? Refreshing, quiet, with more looks, more touch, fewer likes, more sensual.
A world of possible scenarios opened up. Reading the newspaper again on a Sunday morning with a long, shared breakfast began to seem like a perfectly achievable dream. I like tangible things like talking face to face or smelling the scents around.
I wouldn’t have to worry about posting a photo of us on social media or sharing details of the relationship to avoid that absurd feeling that if it’s not posted, it doesn’t exist.
We would share an ice cream at the movies, comment on the last book we read, tell each other funny anecdotes. The “haha” in the chat would be replaced by a real laugh full of dopamine.
And if the universe was generous, maybe there would also be whole afternoons of weekend sex, more sunsets without photos, more gourmet cooking, more naps, and less Roblox.
Imagining that relationship filled me with nostalgia for a way of connecting where you had to dedicate time and truly show interest. When to see someone you had to pick them up without Waze’s help, call a landline, or ring the doorbell without knowing if they would be home.
People met in restaurants, in a library, at a party, or chatting in a transfer on the way to the airport. Common places, without algorithms or third parties intervening. The time when a man won our heart with care and a lot of creativity.
Decades ago we burned bras to feel free, and today we live hyper-exposed. The body, desire, and even intimacy circulate on social media a click away: a photo, a conversation, a date with a stranger, or even sex via video call. Dating apps ended up turning people into an endless catalog to ease loneliness, feed egos, or fulfill fantasies that before would have required time, courage, and some mystery.
Everything seems more immediate, but also more disposable. The work involved in courtship is no longer required. And amid so much supply and speed, the fear of being authentic and the human taste for ease and conformity have become evident.
Sexy and brave is a man who invites you out after exchanging glances with you. Who knows that “no” is a real possibility and yet dares, with respect. Who displays the art of courtship with an entertaining, flirty, and intelligent conversation. A man who just by seeing him in action makes your heart race and your desire to live grow.
“Would you like to go to the movies to see Notting Hill? They’re showing a classic again,” he said. “Sure, it’s one of my favorites,” I replied. I had seen it many times, but not with him. We said goodbye, and leaving the café I deleted my social media, I wanted to pay attention to what was happening.
I would no longer watch reels with self-love and self-help phrases, clothing offers, baby and cat memes, advice to become a millionaire Mata Hari and good in bed, wall pilates promotions and keto diets, trips to impossible exotic destinations, nor mediums promising to draw the face of my soulmate before probably emptying my bank account. Nor fake profiles created with AI on dating apps, nor recipes I will never cook. In short, a galaxy of advice I don’t need and that I endure every time I open my phone.
I decided to give myself the chance, again, to live an experience closer to reality.
