He is probably not your future husband.

Statistically speaking, one date is much more likely to remain one date than become a joint tax return.

This is not tragic. It is simply dating.

And if he does turn out to be your future husband, there will be plenty of time to discover how he takes his coffee, what he is like when tired and whether his charming spontaneity survives the introduction of household responsibilities.

Either way, there is remarkably little urgency.

One date can inspire an astonishing amount of imaginary progress.

A woman can leave dinner at 9:30 having known a man for ninety minutes and by 10:15 the imagination has already tested his surname beside her first name, considered three possible holidays and developed a vague opinion about where they might live.

The man, meanwhile, may simply be driving home.

Early attraction has magnificent expansion properties. Give it one charming evening and it will happily construct an entire future before dessert has fully settled.

Sometimes attachment arrives before information.

This is one of dating’s stranger efficiencies.

Very little is known about the man, yet somehow losing him already feels alarming.

His character? Developing. His intentions? Unclear. His ability to sustain a relationship? Completely untested. Emotional importance? Apparently enormous.

Sometimes the attachment is not really to him yet. It is to the delicious possibility that perhaps this time something is finally beginning.

Those two things can feel remarkably similar from inside the excitement.

Everyone looks unusually polished at the beginning.

Early dating is basically the diplomatic-reception stage of human behavior.

People arrive freshly groomed, reasonably cheerful and temporarily capable of discussing their interests without mentioning that one of those interests is lying horizontally on the sofa for six uninterrupted hours.

This is not deception so much as presentation.

A man who seems impossibly charming after two dates may indeed be charming. He may also be someone whose less magnificent chapters simply have not been released yet.

People unfold. Occasionally with plot twists.

Sex can dramatically change the genre.

Before sex, there may be long conversations, romantic anticipation, elaborate dinners and an impressive curiosity about everything from childhood memories to favorite cities.

After sex, some romances continue beautifully.

Others undergo a mysterious editorial redesign in which several pages disappear and the phrase “come over” begins appearing with suspicious frequency.

The interesting part is not whether sex happened early or late. It is how much of the original interest survives once it does.

That tells its own story.

The disappearing-and-reappearing man is already showing you the plot.

Nothing has technically become serious yet, and somehow the relationship already requires a tracking device.

He vanishes, returns warmly, disappears again and then resurfaces with enough charm to make the previous disappearance seem almost like a clerical error.

It can feel flattering to be remembered, of course. Human beings enjoy being missed.

But after several rounds, one begins to suspect this is less a developing romance and more a revolving door with excellent manners.

Dating can become a surprisingly busy place to bring unrelated problems.

A bruised ego wants reassurance. A lonely evening wants company. A breakup wants anaesthetic. An ex apparently needs to become jealous.

And suddenly dating has been assigned twelve jobs before the poor man has even ordered a drink.

This is where another person can begin functioning less like a person and more like an emotional Swiss Army knife.

Dating is already complicated enough without asking a stranger to restore self-esteem, erase an ex, prove desirability and provide Friday-night entertainment before appetizers.

A new man can become disproportionately important with remarkable speed.

Suddenly hobbies become negotiable, friends are seen less often, and previously cherished routines develop suspicious flexibility because he might be free.

This is particularly fascinating considering that two weeks earlier he did not exist.

A woman can have a full, interesting life and then meet one attractive man who texts beautifully, and somehow the whole production begins moving him toward center stage.

Romance has always had excellent ambitions.

People rarely “change overnight.” Usually, more information arrived.

There is often that shocked moment later:

He was completely different in the beginning.

Perhaps.

Or perhaps the beginning was simply the sample chapter.

People reveal themselves gradually because that is what people do. Nobody arrives on a first date carrying a professionally indexed catalogue of difficult habits, emotional limitations and strange reactions to stress.

All wrapped presents look promising. Eventually the paper comes off, and occasionally the gift is magnificent.

Occasionally one thinks, Oh. A mug.

Dating contains far more endings than beginnings that become permanent.

And somehow we still treat every unsuccessful date as though the universe has issued a personal rejection letter.

Most people we meet romantically will not become our person. That is not an extraordinary failure of destiny; it is the entire mechanism of selection.

The odd part is how quickly one disappointing experience can become What is wrong with me? when the far more ordinary explanation is simply this:

Two people had dinner and were not meant to reorganize their lives around each other.