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“You don’t want to get married?” Roy said.

I always bristled at this question. “No,” I said with a sheepish smile and modest shrug. I have learned to make people, namely men, feel comfortable with my steely answer through humble body language. “It’s too much of a burden to want that when I also want to live a really big life.”

Roy’s brow wrinkled as he played with the lukewarm French fries on his plate. This sunny diner reminded me of my favorite southern aunt’s kitchen. Maybe that’s why I felt so at home sitting here with him. Or maybe it was just him.

“I think I get what you’re saying,” he said in his Texas drawl. A long beat passed. This was one of the many things I liked about him — his flirty relationship with measured silences. Finally, he said, “I want to get married one day. You want to know why? I know my big life will be bigger with her.”

I met Roy at a bar crawl in Dallas on Juneteenth 2022, one of the best times and places to be Black, young and proud. Fresh off my flight from Chicago, I was warm, drunk and happy as I followed my girlfriends through a throng of partygoers. When I felt a tug at my denim shorts’ back belt loop, I turned around to see Roy standing there, all tall, dark and smiley.

“May I help you?” I asked.

“Yuh — I think you can,” he replied.

We wound up dancing, joking and touching long enough for my friends to have to come find me in the crowd to share that they were moving to the next bar. Before following them out, Roy and I exchanged numbers. I never expected to hear from him again, just like with most flirtatious touch points I’d had with men over the years. I couldn’t have cared less.

At 32, I had long given myself permission to reach self-actualization with or without ever finding everlasting romantic love. I had familial love. Friend love. Unlike some of my girlfriends, whose ultimate joy hinged on their nameless, faceless future husband and children, I often panicked at the thought of tethering myself to such things.

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