As I slid into her DMs, I entered the dystopian nightmare of romance across hard borders. But love can grow in the most infertile and unlikely soils
I’ve always thought of dating as like a particularly complicated soup – which is perhaps why I was very single for many years.
My theory was that romance is a temperamental, finicky meal that calls for a truly baffling array of ingredients in order to be successful – some kind of five-star French delection that requires everything to be “just so”. Even if you do get all the correct ingredients (two consenting adults who are reasonably attracted to each other, a low-lit smoky bar on a Saturday night, enough alcohol to push through the awkward conversation), it’s still incredibly likely, almost guaranteed, that something will mess up the recipe and you’ll be left with a disaster, an inedible mess.
Read the original article at The Guardian