I sent the first text

After my divorce, people kept telling me to call if I needed anything. I needed someone to eat noodles with on a Wednesday. Somehow, that felt harder to ask for than help moving a sofa.

I knew plenty of people. I could chat at school pickup, make a colleague laugh, and spend an entire evening liking photographs of other people having dinner. What I didn’t know was how to turn any of that into an actual friend.

There was a woman from my walking group who always made me laugh. I wrote a message asking if she wanted to get dinner. Then I deleted “I know you’re probably really busy” and “no worries if not” and the unnecessarily detailed explanation of why I was free.

I sent it. I put my phone down. I picked it up again almost immediately, because courage apparently has a very short attention span.

She couldn’t do Wednesday. My brain took this as a complete assessment of my personality. Then another message arrived: “Thursday?”

We ate noodles. We talked about our children, our work, and how neither of us knew where women our age were supposed to meet each other. There was no instant declaration that we were best friends. There was a second dinner.

A few months later, she came over while clean laundry occupied most of the sofa. I moved it onto a chair. We ordered food and talked until late. I hadn’t become more interesting or finished sorting out my life. I’d just made room for someone to be in it.