Love Bites: Dinner With Strangers

I arrived second (and nervous), scanning the restaurant until I spotted a smiling man already at the table. Soon we were four, brought together by an app and about to have dinner as strangers. Sitting in the window, I wondered if anyone passing by would recognise our awkward introductions and wonder, “Why can’t this woman find friends?”

I used to think friendship just happened. Now, in my early thirties, I’m well accustomed to the ever-turning merry-go-round of friends moving to new cities for work or to the suburbs for gardens and catchment areas. Meanwhile, my husband and I – remote workers, renters, childless by choice – remain where these friends once were. To them, we are the last flicker of their youth in the city; and we light a candle to their calendars booked six months in advance. As much as I love my friends, I’m realising I can’t rely on proximity, gained through an office job or shared housing, to build my social life anymore. 

As our food came, I took a deep breath, told myself I’d come this far, and asked the waitress for a bib (ever the messy eater). We chuckled about this in playful banter, but soon everyone was wearing one. There we were, a table of four adults, eating in bibs and answering question prompts off our phones, like a first date – because it sort of was. We had a shared, unspoken understanding that, although self-conscious, we were all there to try. 

The laughter came easily, the vibe generous and curious. There were no soulmate moments; just the warmth of a wholesome evening spent in good company with swapped numbers. Making friends as an adult is awkward, brave, yet hopeful. I might need a few more dinner dates before I find ‘the ones’. But I’m willing to keep saying yes and showing up until I do.