Written by Amy Stoltenberg
Photos by Amy Stoltenberg
“Hi! I’m Amy!” said the overly enthusiastic, faux-redhead, undercover journalist.
“I know,” replied the much cooler, indie-looking urban hipster.
And so there was the meeting point, the first date. The second-most awkward part of a date, in fact, is this first routine of recognition and introduction. We met on Tinder. We talked for a couple of days. By certain modern social standards, I guess he was sort of right: he did already know me. He was an aspiring photographer who wrote me a poem about catching trains headed everywhere but nowhere. Me, the sarcastic jokester with an ironic appreciation for said poetry. When we finally connected in person, I guess he was sort of right. He did already know me.
On Tinder, I told him I just bought my first camera and I wanted to practice shooting. He said he would help me figure it out and he wanted to get some shooting practice in, too. We met at a Starbucks in the city next to the lake with plans to chat our way into a photoshoot.
The date had all the elements of an excellent encounter — stimulating activity, picturesque setting — and I began the night with a characteristic, if adolescent, confidence.
I have this theory about guys and coffee, which is partly why I suggested we grab coffee before taking pictures. While working in a coffee shop throughout high school, I observed a direct relationship between the type of coffee ordered and the qualities of the man ordering it. At one end of the manliness spectrum lies the black dark roast, ordered by the straight-forward, solid type. At the other end, the milk-chocolate frappuccino — choice of the fragile and warm-hearted pretty boy.
Chaz* ordered a small black dark roast and we spent about a half hour talking strictly camera business at a small table piled high with his photo equipment. He’d brought his antique Polaroid and a vintage film camera, both swoon-worthy to the artistically inclined fashion major, yet both slightly overshadowed by all of the numbers and technical facts he spewed about them. My efforts to slide in a flirty comment or personal question in an attempt at intimacy were squashed, and so I was a bit relieved when he commented on the fleeting natural light and led the way outside.
He shot with a film camera with exactly 12 shots to take. We worked quietly, him making comments here and there about which way my knee should point or where to stand to best capture shadows, me asking about which way to drape my sweater.
The artistry involved in film photography is enchanting to watch, and watching his dedication to this passion was captivating, but as I modeled for Chaz under a bridge by the lake, I wondered if he was feeling the same platonic sort of chemistry that I was. The energy we shared was purely creative, and the date felt more like a business collaboration than a romantic affair. Our closest moment was when his hand brushed my nose as he took measurements with the light meter. No goosebumps or electric shocks came from this connection.
In the days since our meeting, all has been quiet on the Chaz homefront. Making art together was satisfying, but making out together just wasn’t something that promised to do the same.
There’s a second part to the coffee theory that applies to romantic relationships: for a pair of potential lovers to click, the two drinks ordered must be on opposing ends of the drink spectrum. A couple made up of two sensitive romantics drinking chocolaty delights usually doesn’t work any better than one consisting of double espresso drinking realists.
As we sat down, coffees in hand, Chaz began flipping out spreadsheets and charts filled with numbers defining the relationships between ISOs and apertures.
As I took a sip of my drink, my heart sank just a little bit. The small black dark roast tasted just a tad bitter.
*Name has been changed to prevent social catastrophe
