The Taken Glow

Haven’t been properly single in years. The reality of it is arriving in pieces.

There’s something baffling about the taken signal—the moment you’re in a relationship, you become more attractive to women. The best ones only seem to appear when you’re already spoken for. Now I’ve handed that back, and I’m curious how the math works without it.

Then comes the room. Photos come down. Her things go into a box. A ritual that feels both necessary and slightly pathetic. My mother needs to hear that Rebecca won’t be coming around the same way anymore. Her parents will decide I’m the asshole, because they’ll only ever hear one version of it.

New clothes seem warranted. Better self-presentation. Drain the wallet. Go back out, which in November I find genuinely unpleasant—especially the anonymous club nights where it’s too loud to actually talk to anyone. My whole thing is talking, to people and to women in particular, getting into it. A 110-decibel basement strips all of that away and leaves you standing around looking newly available, which I am.

Maybe it’s fine. Maybe the single life earns its reputation eventually. I’ll go in easy, see what it turns into. And if everything goes completely sideways, there’s always the option of paying for company.