My expectations weren’t high. They never are, these days. But still, I had that tiny flicker of hope, the same pathetic flame that keeps moths frying themselves on lightbulbs. I shaved, splashed on some aftershave that expired sometime during the Obama administration, and combed my hair in a way I imagined said: distinguished gentleman rather than dirty old man lurking outside playgrounds.
We met at a coffee shop. She wasn’t young. She wasn’t glamorous. Ordinary-looking, maybe forty-five, maybe more. Hard to tell in the dim café lighting, which I was grateful for. But here’s the thing—she was funny. Actually funny. She cracked a joke about the barista’s hipster mustache that made me laugh so loud half the café turned to stare. For a moment, I forgot all the nonsense of Tinder and disappointment and loneliness.
We talked. And talked. Three hours passed. The staff began giving us the stink eye, clearly wanting their table back for some laptop-clutching freelancers sipping oat lattes.
So I suggested dinner.
She looked at me with narrowed eyes and said, “I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not going to have sex with you on the first date.”
I protested, hands raised in mock surrender: “Everyone has to eat!”
The Feast
We ended up in a gastropub around the corner. Candlelight, wooden tables, chalkboard menus pretending to be rustic. She ordered veal—slow-braised, dripping in red wine sauce, tender enough to cut with a sigh. I had mutton, roasted with garlic and rosemary, served with mashed potatoes so creamy they could’ve doubled as face lotion.
We drank. We laughed. Somewhere between my third pint and her second glass of wine, I realized: I was enjoying myself. Genuinely.
And then it hit me: I wanted to kiss her. Badly.
The Turn
Outside, under a flickering streetlight, I leaned in. She didn’t slap me. She didn’t recoil. She kissed me back, soft and warm, and then pulled away with a look that could freeze vodka.
“Coffee at my place,” she said. “It’s just around the corner. BUT nothing more than coffee!”
I swore I’d be a perfect gentleman.
Coffee, Rolls, and Wine
Her flat smelled like cinnamon. Actual cinnamon. She had homemade cinnamon rolls waiting on the counter, as if Martha Stewart and Aphrodite had conspired to ambush me. We drank coffee, ate rolls, and talked. About life, about failure, about sadness. At one point, I thought I saw a tear in her eye. Maybe it was mine. Hard to tell.
Then came the wine. First one glass. Then another. And before I knew it, we were kissing again—only this time not soft and warm but desperate, hungry, as if the years of loneliness were finally being repaid in one instalment.
We made love. And let me tell you, it wasn’t two bodies fumbling in the dark. No, this was something else. Something ethereal. Something angelic. If angels sweat and curse and knock over half the furniture.
The Morning After
When I walked home the next morning, the sun was brighter, the birds were louder, and I—Jan Parviainen, dirty old man—was walking on air.
I wasn’t just back in the game. I had won the damn match.
I was so confident, so inflated with joy, that the first thing I did when I got home was open Tinder, go to settings, and set my preferred age range to 18–29.
Because why not? A man has to dream big.
(This is a pick from my upcoming book—if you want to read more, subscribe to a newsletter.)
