It's been a few months now, and I still think about it, lying awake at night, staring at the water stain on my ceiling that resembles Idaho—big and kinda pointless. Her name was Emma, a name as classic as New York bagels on a Sunday morning. Our chat was bubbling like that third espresso shot I should've skipped. We bonded over our love for dogs, though I suspect she liked poodles and I'm more of a "whatever dog isn't interested in eating my socks" kind of guy. But here's the kicker, the zinger, the one-liner that's left me in regret-espresso-fueled purgatory—I never told her my best joke. It was a golden opportunity. We were talking about our favorite coffee shops, trying to out-hipster each other when she casually dropped, "So, what would your ideal date look like?" And there it was, the perfect moment. The pitch was high and right over the plate. All I had to do was swing. But instead of saying, "I’d take you to the botanical gardens—because, you know, they're the only place where we're guaranteed not to run out of plant-based conversations," I went with, "Uh, maybe Central Park?" Real original, I know. Central Park, like I've got some sort of stock in predictable dates. The conversation fizzled after that, like the time I tried to make Nitro cold brew at home and ended up with an angry French press and a wet kitchen