# The Charcoal Sketch and the Cold Coffee December 27 I was twenty minutes early, which is unlike me. Usually, I’m the one running in with unlaced boots and wet hair, blaming the traffic. But today, I was nervous. I sat in the corner of the café—the one with the peeling velvet armchair that smells faintly of old books and roasted beans—and opened my sketchbook. I tried to focus on the texture of the wooden table, scratching charcoal lines to steady my hand, but my eyes kept darting to the door. Online dating always feels a bit like walking onto a stage without a script. You know the other person’s stats, their favorite movies, and maybe three carefully selected photos, but you don’t know *them*. I’d been scrolling through [amorpulse](https://amorpulse.com/) for a few weeks, mostly just browsing, until I stumbled upon Mark’s profile. It wasn’t flashy. No gym selfies or travel humble-brags. Just a picture of him standing in a pottery studio, covered in clay, looking genuinely tired but happy. We’d exchanged a few messages about the difficulty of throwing a symmetrical vase, and I liked his rhythm. He didn't try too hard to be funny. When he walked in, he looked exactly like his photo, just a bit sharper in 3D. He wore a grey sweater that had seen better days, and he almost tripped over the umbrella stand by the entrance. I liked that. Perfection makes me anxious. He ordered a black coffee, no sugar, and sat down opposite me. For the first ten minutes, it was exactly what you’d expect: polite, slightly stiff chatter about the weather and the commute. I thought, *Okay, this is fine. One drink, thirty minutes, then I can go home and finish my painting.* Then he saw my charcoal stick resting on the napkin. "Is that a 4B or a 6B?" he asked, pointing at it. "6B," I said. "I like the mess it makes." He laughed, a warm, grounding sound. "I use a similar grade for drafting glaze patterns. The smudge is the best part." That was the shift. The polite interview dissolved. We stopped trying to impress each other and just started *talking*. We talked about the frustration of creative block, the weird specific joy of smelling turpentine, and why digital art feels different from getting your hands dirty. We argued—playfully—about whether photography counts as "capturing" or "creating" reality. I looked down at my latte at one point and realized the foam had completely collapsed. It was stone cold. I hadn’t taken a sip in forty minutes. I didn’t care. The café bustle around us—the espresso machine hissing, the indie folk playlist on loop—faded into background noise. It wasn't magic, and the heavens didn't open up. It was just… comfortable. It felt like picking up a conversation with an old friend you hadn't seen in years, where you don't have to explain the context of every sentence. We stayed until the barista started stacking chairs on the tables. I checked my phone: four hours. Four hours had vanished into the ether of a good conversation. We walked out into the chilly evening air, and for the first time, I wasn't rushing to get back to my solitude. "I should probably get back to my clay," he said, wrapping his scarf tighter. "It's drying out." "And I have a canvas to ruin," I replied. We didn't promise forever. We didn't declare undying affection. We just agreed that this—whatever this quiet, easy connection was—was worth a second cup of coffee. And honestly? That’s more than enough for me right now.