I used to flake. A lot. Then a woman on the 1 train, reading over my shoulder as I typed another sorry, raincheck, told me, sweetly and without judgment, that I was going to be lonely if I kept it up. She got off at 23rd Street. I got off at my old self.
New York is a city of near-misses. You meet someone at a gallery, swap numbers, mean it, and then life happens: deadlines, the gym you swore you'd start, that spiral of Sunday laundry. The coffee date becomes a maybe, then a someday, then a ghost.
So I made a rule. When someone says coffee, I say when. On the calendar before the subway arrives. The worst case is a decent oat latte and 45 minutes of my life. The best case, and this has happened more than I deserve, is a person who becomes a landmark in your city.
My closest friends here all started as awkward 3 pm coffees in places neither of us loved. Now we have spots. Now we have inside jokes about the barista who never remembers our names. Now we have each other on 11 pm don't-go-home-alone texts.
Say yes. Pay for the coffee. Ask the second question.
Love,