The dinner was in a warehouse loft in the Mission.
Concrete floors. Long table. Low light that moved like water.
Someone had brought their dog.
Someone else brought wine from a biodynamic vineyard and wouldn’t shut up about it.
People talked like they’d been saving it up: startups, breakups, microdoses, grief.
Sylvie sat across from me.
She hadn’t said much. Just twisted a linen napkin in her hands.
Pale linen. No jewelry.
She had the kind of presence that made you rethink posture.
When it came around to me, I said: “I work on addiction care. Mostly Medicaid. Mostly mess.”
Sylvie looked up. Her glass paused at her lip.
“What made you pick that?”
“I didn’t,” I said. “It kept not leaving me alone.”
Someone laughed lightly down the table. I waited for them to finish.
“It’s not glamorous,” I added. “But it matters. The stakes are high. The people are tired. The tech is bad.”
I said it flat, like I’d said it before. Because I had.
Sylvie watched me for a second longer than necessary.
“You talk like someone who doesn’t want to be misunderstood,” she said.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s just... careful,” she said.
I paused. “I've never liked being misread.”
“Because you want to be in control?”
“Because I want to be clear. But clarity can feel like control, I guess.”
She tilted her head, considering.
“Still. You say things like they’re final.”
“Because I’ve thought about them.”
“That can be intimidating.”
I added, "Conviction is threatening when it’s not apologetic.”
She looked at me. “You don’t apologize much.”
“Should I?”
“I don’t know yet,” she said. “I’m still deciding if it’s refreshing or performative.”
I smiled. “Can’t it be both?”
She didn’t smile back. “Maybe.”
We didn’t speak for a few minutes. Someone was talking about microdosing and self-parenting. Joe was describing a dream in detail no one asked for.
Sylvie pushed a chickpea across her plate. Said, quieter:
“I think a lot of men I know are trying to be soft, but end up just becoming blurry.”
I looked at her.
“That’s a good one-liner,” I said.
“It’s not a one-liner. It’s what I see.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s what makes it good.”
“That’s a hard thing to say in rooms like this,” I added.
She shrugged. “It’s not an insult. Just a pattern.”
“I don’t think softness should require self-erasure,” I said.
“Neither do I. But most people don’t make the distinction.”
She didn’t look away. Her eyes held.
“You feel precise,” she said. “I don’t know if that’s discipline or fear.”
“It’s both,” I said.
She nodded like that was the only answer she would’ve accepted.
“Where’s your mess?” she asked.
“Contained.”
“That sounds sad.”
“No, I just try not to do theater.”
“You think vulnerability’s a performance?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “Depends on the audience.”
Sylvie folded her napkin into something that might’ve been a swan. Set it beside her plate.
“I think people want to know your mess,” she said. “It makes you less... mythological.”
“I’m not trying to be a myth.”
“No,” she said, “but you’re fluent in distance.”
Someone lit a candle. The flame sputtered. The room shifted.
I said, “You think I’m hiding.”
“I think you’re translating.”
“Same thing?”
“Sometimes,” she said. “Depends on the language.”
We sat like that. Forks idle. Glasses full. The conversation had moved on around us, but something in our part of the table stayed still.
Finally I said, “I’m not uninterested in being known.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I just don’t want to be decoded.”
Sylvie didn’t respond right away. She reached for her water, took a sip, and set the glass down like she was finished with more than the drink.
Then: “That’s the most honest thing you’ve said all night.”
The host brought out dessert. A tart that looked better than it tasted.
I took one bite and pushed the plate slightly to the side.
Sylvie did the same.