Crumbs of Love

Boston was wet that night, the misty drizzle that makes a whole city feel like it is under a giant dewy lens. The streets glow, and so did I, but probably for different reasons. This was my 20th first date this year, and it was only February. They weren't all gems, not even kernels of fool's gold found in dirt. It was rough out there, kids. Let's just say the local sex shop knew my first name and vibrator preference. I'll admit, it's been a bit of a dry few months...fine a year and a half.

I was about to meet someone new, someone who had—in our brief exchanges—said the right things, a guy who seemed sensitive, a little quirky, a little nerdy, and wasn't a finance bro, which is tough to come by in Boston. We were set to meet at a Gastro pub near Harvard Square, a fun and easy place nestled among the other twenty-somethings either also going on a date or out with friends. 

As I walked on the slick sidewalks, I could feel the anticipation buzzing in me. That first date buzz you get, you dress a little nicer and take a little more time on your appearance. And I really thought that this time would be different. I was ready for a connection, to find someone who got me. Past dates have been… OK, but none were great. I always caught myself bending a little too far to make things work, pretending to be interested in things I didn't care about just to avoid an awkward silence. There's a difference, I reminded myself, between expanding one's horizons and abandoning yourself. But who hasn't danced that line when they're hungry for love?

Tonight, I told myself, I'd try to be a little truer to myself. If this guy and I weren't vibing, well, at least there'd be a good beer, and I could always order my go-to post-date disaster pizza.

When I walked in, he had not arrived yet, so I stood by the door with an easy smile and went to the empty seats at the bar. Sitting down, I caught the eye of the bartender, who walked over. It was clearly the end of her shift, and she threw down a menu. 

"Anyone joining you?" She said while clearing glasses from the seats nearby. 

"Actually, yes, just one." I smiled at her a little too widely. "First date," I said with a shrug.

She could have cared less. She threw down another menu and walked away. Sighing heavily, I grabbed my phone from my bag, checking to see if he'd messaged. Nope. And just in case, I checked the Bumble Dating App to see if he'd unmatched me. Ghosting in the dating world had evolved from just ignoring someone. With dating apps, people could unmatch, block you on the app, and then block your number. Technology has created avoidant monsters for us all.

Thankfully, he hadn't unmatched me. And my text letting him know I was at the bar went through. My ego was still intact.

I turned to look at the menu to seem not so eager for his arrival when I felt a tap on my shoulder. There he was, sweating and carrying a brown paper bag under his arm. He held it up when I recognized him, grinning and proud of whatever was in the bag.

Thrusting the bag in my face, he said 'This is for you!" and just stood there. 

Surprised, I looked at the bag and then back at him, understanding he wouldn't be moving until I took the bag. I took it and said, "Oh! Thank you… Should I open it now?"

"Yes, please!" He replied, eyes bright with expectation.

Now, I've been on a lot of dates, and I have had quite a few of them kick off a first date with a gift, but if future me had let ten minutes ago me know what was in that bag, I would not have believed it. Or what would happen in the next thirty minutes.

I opened the bag, and there it was: a fresh, perfectly baked loaf of artisanal bread. Its golden crust had a dusting of flour, and the smell - warm, slightly nutty, with a touch of olive oil - rose out of the bag like a gift itself. I looked back at him, trying to hide my confusion.

"I remembered you said you like bread," he said, his face a blend of hope and nerves, "I do too."

"Oh, wow, yes… I did say that; thank you so much!" I replied, feeling a warmth spread over me at his thoughtfulness.

But I couldn't help but think, and maybe my poor dating life had made me the cynic: Do I love bread? I mean, sure, who doesn't? But love bread? As in, let 's-make-this-a-theme-of-our-date kind of love? Maybe I'd been trying to sound breezy, even relatable, during our chats when I said it. Still, I didn't want to kill the moment. I held the bread to my chest like a prized possession and flashed him a smile. 

"It's lovely, thank you," I said, putting it on the bar.

He seemed relieved but then frowned when he saw me place it on the bar. Catching himself, he let out a small laugh.

"Good, good. I was worried it was…too much. I get a little excited when I meet someone who appreciates the simple things."

It was sweet, really, and in a world so strapped into technology, it is lovely to see someone so eager to truly connect. We each ordered our overpriced beers and settled into our corner of the bar. Soon, I found myself listening to him passionately explaining his favorite artisanal bakeries around town. His eyes lit up with every mention of sourdough, focaccia, pumpernickel, and even obscure breads I'd never heard of.

I nodded, but my mind drifted to the thin line between expanding one's horizons and abandoning oneself. I liked bread, but not this hard. I attempted to change the subject to other easy topics, books, movies, and family, but he kept bringing it back to bread. 

Feeling a bit deflated, there was a lull in the conversation. That was when he pulled out a folded piece of paper, slightly creased and worn. 

"I, uh, also wrote something for you. A little poem," he said, suddenly sheepish. "I don't do this normally, but…it just feels right."

"Oh, wow!" I said, genuinely touched. I'll read it when I get home, thank you." I reached for the paper.

Snatching it out of reach, he said, "No, I'd like to read it to you." Looking me in the eye, he started to open it, "Now."

He cleared his throat and began to read:

"A Love Note

I can already see you rising, just hoping there aren't any more crumby guys around.

Else your buns will be over baked, and you'll get tired of slicing off loose ends in life.

But you also knead to know, this not is gonna leave us with some sour dough.

Maybe I'll be able to brioche the topic. 

I'm really on a roll here, because I would love to toast to it.

It'll be something we'd talk about for years to crumb.

Like growing mold together, or at yeast we'll try?

I hope you find me crustworthy. Because you caught my rye. 

If things go well, maybe next time I'll bring you flours.

I may just turn out to be your breadwinner.

I suppose we'll have to wheat and see."

As he finished, he looked up, his expression both vulnerable and expectant. And for a moment, I was torn. I wanted to be the person swept off her feet by a bread poem and feel seen and touched by this uniquely creative gesture. I wanted to be the girl who believed that in grains of flour and kneaded dough, someone could find a piece of her heart.

But the reality was… It didn't matter how many times I watched cheesy movies and craved romance of this kind; I was barely keeping a straight face. The line about 'growing mold together' almost broke me. Yet I knew that laughing would be cruel, and Bread Guy's hopeful eyes reminded me of how fragile these moments could be.

So I smiled warmly and said, "That was…creative. Thank you for sharing it with me."

His face fell just a little, but he forced a small laugh. We tried to keep the conversation flowing, though I could sense a shift in his energy. He talked more about his love for baking bread, and I nodded along, trying to share something about myself. Yet every word from me seemed to bounce off him, like he was looking for someone who could match his passion, dare I say loaf for a loaf?

As our beer glasses emptied, and neither of us moved to order another or shift the drinks date into a dinner date, I looked at the loaf of bread sitting on the bar between us. Its crust had cooled. The thoughtfulness of his gesture had not. Still, I knew I'd leave it behind.

I took a deep breath. "This has been really nice," I started to say gently, "but I think we may have different interests and are looking for different things. I think this bread is really special to you. You should keep it."

His face changed, hardening into something mean and angry instantly.

"Wow. OK. So you're saying this was all a waste of time?"

"Oh, no, that's not what I…" I stammered, caught off guard.

He shook his head, frowning. "You know what, I don't want to be with someone who doesn't feel as deeply as I do. What's the point if you can't even appreciate this?" Gesturing to the bread and folded up poem on the bar.

And with that, he grabbed his coat and stood up, giving me one last exasperated look before storming out. I sat there, stunned, trying to process what had just happened. 

Then, just as I was about to get up myself, the door swung open again. Bread Guy marched back in, eyes locked on the bar. Without a word, he grabbed the loaf of bread, clutched it to his chest, glared at me, and stormed out again, leaving me alone with the warm glow of the gastro pub lights and only an empty stool and a story I wouldn't soon forget. Until I saw that he'd left the poem on the bar. I tucked it into my pocket; I wouldn't forget it, and now I had proof.

As I walked home that night, I couldn't help but shake my head, both amused and bewildered. Dating, I realized, is as much about discovering what we don't love as it is about finding what we do. And though the evening hadn't led to romance, it had taught me something about authenticity. 

Sometimes, the best connections are the ones where we learn to stay true to ourselves—even when the world or a loaf of bread asks us to be something else. 

I couldn't help but smile as I picked up my post-date disaster pizza, looking at the crust. The smile turned into a giggle, then an outright belly laugh. I hoped that somewhere out there, he'd find his one true loaf - someone who'd rise to meet his passion, crust and all.