Zen Garden - BLIND DATE!

 

It’s a Tuesday. Tuesdays are slow. School pick-ups are done by noon, and the city settles into that lazy lull before the five o’clock madness. My Uber app pings.

“Sigrid,” it says.

The pickup is in Lavington. She’s got a 4.95 rating. Impressive. Most riders hover around 4.7; they don’t know it, but that’s Uber’s equivalent of a “we-need-to-talk” text. The destination says “Zen Garden.”

I’ve been there. It’s one of those places that pretends it’s not expensive, but the waiters wear aprons embroidered with their names and they bring you a bottle of sparkling water without asking.

When I pull up, Sigrid’s waiting by the gate, arms folded, squinting at her phone. She’s wearing a black dress that’s simple but elegant, the kind that whispers money rather than shouting it. Her blonde hair is pulled into a ponytail, and there’s a nervous energy about her—the type that suggests she’s rehearsed this evening a thousand times in her head.

She slides into the back seat, clutching a small clutch bag.

“Good afternoon,” she says. Her voice is warm, polite, with a slight Norwegian lilt.

“Afternoon,” I respond, adjusting the rearview mirror. “Zen Garden, yes?”

She nods, then hesitates.

“Actually, could we talk?”

That catches me off guard. Riders rarely want to talk. Most of them sink into their phones, earbuds in, the world shut out.

“Sure,” I say cautiously. “What’s up?”

She fidgets with the strap of her bag.

“I’m going on a blind date,” she says. “And I’m not sure if this was a good idea.”

I glance at her through the mirror. Her face is open, vulnerable. She’s not looking for advice; she just needs to say it out loud.

“It’s normal to be nervous,” I offer. “But hey, worst case scenario, you’ll have a good story to tell.”

That earns me a small smile.

“Do you mind waiting for me at the restaurant?” she asks. “I’ll pay extra. Just in case... you know, it doesn’t go well.”

I’ve heard this before. Blind dates are like buying mutura from a roadside stand—you’re either in for a treat or a trip to the emergency room.

“No problem,” I say. “Take your time.”

We get to Zen Garden, and she steps out, adjusting her dress. She turns back before closing the door.

“Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” I say. “And remember, if he’s boring, you can always fake an emergency.”

She laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh that feels like sunlight on your skin. I park a little distance away and settle in, scrolling through my phone, half-watching the entrance. She disappears inside.

Twenty minutes pass. Then forty. Then an hour. I’m about to text her when I see her emerge. She’s not alone. There’s a man with her, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a suit that’s a little too tight around the waist. They’re laughing, but it’s the polite kind of laughter that says, “This isn’t going anywhere.”

They stop by the entrance. He gestures to his car, a shiny Prado, but she shakes her head. He looks disappointed but doesn’t push. They exchange a quick handshake, and he walks off. She watches him leave, then turns and spots my car.

She climbs back in, her smile intact but thinner now, like it’s holding back something heavier.

“How was it?” I ask, knowing better but unable to help myself.

She shrugs.

“He’s... nice,” she says. “But nice isn’t enough, is it?”

There’s a pause. Then she adds, almost to herself:

“I wish people wore signs. Like, something that tells you what you’re getting into. Honest. Transparent. No surprises.”

I want to tell her life doesn’t work that way, but she’s not looking for answers. We drive in silence for a while. Then she asks me to pull over by a small café on the way back.

“Do you mind?” she says. “I need coffee. Do you want one?”

“I’m good, thanks,” I reply.

She returns with a steaming cup and sits in the front seat this time.

“You must hear all kinds of stories,” she says.

“You have no idea,” I reply.

She takes a sip of her coffee, then glances at me.

“Tell me one.”

So I do. I tell her about the guy who tried to pay me with fake concert tickets, the woman who cried all the way to the airport, the drunk corporate type who insisted I was his long-lost brother. She laughs in the right places, gasps at the twists. By the time we’re nearing her place, the tension in her shoulders has melted away.

When we pull up, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a business card.

“If I need a cab directly, can I call you?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say, handing her my number.

She smiles, handing me the card in return. It’s minimalist, just her name and a number: Sigrid Larsen.

“Thanks,” she says. “For waiting. And for the stories.”

“Anytime,” I say.

She hesitates, then adds:

“Maybe next time, I’ll tell you mine.”

She gets out, and I watch as she walks to her gate, her coffee in one hand, her clutch in the other. She’s still figuring it out, just like the rest of us. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now...