Not long ago, I threw a going-away party before moving to Los Angeles. It was a dimly lit, wine-soaked send-off in the basement of a Croatian restaurant on the Lower East Side. By hour three, I had consumed one too many orange wines and I somehow ended the night without my top. It felt like an appropriate farewell to New York: chaotic and overly intimate in that particular, downtown way.

I invited an ex-lover—or rather, someone who was my ex in every way except by official title. I wasn’t clinging to anything unresolved. I was in a happy relationship, and it felt adult, even generous, to offer a friendly goodbye to someone who had once been part of my life.

The next day, he texted me: Would it be okay if I asked out Marie?

The phrasing was considerate. The sentiment, less so.

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