Everyone talks about spark like it is a medical fact
You either felt it or you wasted an evening. I used to say it too. Sat on the night bus with my makeup still on, texting the group chat that he was nice, just no fireworks, and feeling very wise about it.
Then I clocked how often I was the one putting on a show. Lip product. Jokes. That little smirk I do when I want the room to like me. And he was probably sat there trying not to knock his drink. Two people performing “date” at each other and then calling the quiet bit a lack of chemistry.
Spark is real sometimes. I am not going to pretend I have never walked into a pub and wanted to climb someone before the first pint landed. That is easy. That is also how I have ended up in kitchens with my shoes still on and a name I could not spell the next morning.
Slow is less sexy to talk about. It is also less fake.
What people actually mean when they say spark
Nine times out of ten they mean they did not feel that little whoosh. The stomach drop. The I-would-let-you-walk-me-home-even-if-it-is-out-of-my-way feeling. Fair. I like that feeling. I have built whole weekends on it.
The problem is we have turned that whoosh into proof. If it is not there in the first hour, the person is written off like a bad film. You see it everywhere. Apps. Voice notes. Girls in loos saying he was lovely but there was nothing. Men saying the vibe was off when what they mean is she did not laugh at the right time.
I read something the other week about more people giving a second date even when the first one was not fireworks. Nearly half of them saying they had fallen for someone they did not fancy at first. I sat on the sofa in my dressing gown and felt personally attacked. Because I have done the opposite for years. Called it standards. It was impatience with better lighting.
Spark can be nerves. Spark can be the lighting in the bar. Spark can be you being so busy watching yourself that you never actually met the person opposite.
I have been both people
I have sat there thinking he is fine, I am bored, I want my bed. And I have sat there thinking I am being so charming right now and he has no idea I am sweating through my top.
Last winter I met someone from an app outside a pub in Zone 2. He was late by nine minutes. Apologised like he had committed a crime. Asked what I wanted to drink and then second guessed himself. I did my usual. Fast talk. A bit filthy. The version of me that photographs well in bad lighting.
There was no cinematic moment. No hand brush that made the room tilt. We talked about his sister and my rota and a film neither of us had finished. I came home and told my flatmate it was dead.
She said, did he actually do anything wrong or did he just fail to be a scene.
I hated that. Because he had been kind and a bit awkward and he had looked at me when I was speaking. I had been so busy being Els that I had not left any space for him to be anyone.
We went out again. Not because I suddenly fancied him on the bus home. Because I was honest with myself for five minutes and admitted I had been on stage the whole time. Second time he was funnier. I was quieter. The whoosh did not arrive like a firework. It arrived like noticing I wanted to see him on a Wednesday, which is a far more dangerous feeling.
Did it turn into a boyfriend. No. That is not the point. The point is I nearly bin-bagged a decent man because the first night did not come with a soundtrack.
Performing is not chemistry
This is the bit I do not love admitting.
I can make a first date feel electric on my side and still feel nothing. I know how to lean in. I know how to let a silence sit for one beat and then fill it with something cheeky. People call that spark. Sometimes it is just skill. Same way I can walk the warehouse floor looking sorted when I am running on tea and spite.
If you are good at being wanted, you can confuse the performance with the feeling. I have done it. Left a date thinking we had chemistry when what we had was me being on and him being flattered.
The other way round is just as common. He is nervous. He talks about work too much. He asks if you got home okay and then sends a dry message at 11. You call it no spark. He calls it trying not to mess it up.
Nerves look like boredom if you are already half out the door.
I am not saying you have to mother a man through his personality. If he is rude, dull on purpose, or checking his phone like you are a loading screen, leave. That is not a slow burn. That is you lowering the bar and calling it patience.
When no spark is a real no
There is a difference and your body usually knows it if you stop decorating the night.
Real no is you watching the clock. Real no is you laughing a bit too loud and feeling nothing behind it. Real no is you already writing the “had a nice time” text in your head while he is still talking. Real no is your skin not wanting to be near his, even a bit, even later, even after another drink.
That is allowed. You do not owe anyone a second sitting because an article told you spark is a scam.
What I am bored of is the other version. The date was fine. He was decent. You were in your own head. The bar was noisy. You had come straight from a late and your feet hurt. And still you labelled the whole thing dead because it did not feel like a trailer.
Fine is not a verdict. Fine is data. Fine means you did not get enough of the person to decide anything except that you both showed up.
Slow burn is less sexy. It is also less fake.
The spark story is tidy. You meet. Your stomach drops. You snog in a doorway. You tell your mates it was mad. That story does well in a group chat. It does less well when you want someone who still texts after the easy bit.
Slow looks like this. You notice you keep mentioning him at work. You want to tell him a stupid thing that happened with the rota. You feel calmer in his company than you do in the ones who make your pulse jump and then go quiet for four days.
It is not as good a story. It will not make anyone in the loos go oh my god. It might, however, survive a Sunday night when you are knackered and not performing.
I still like filthy. I still like the look across a room. I am not turning into someone who needs six months and a shared spreadsheet before I fancy anyone. I am saying the first night is a trailer, not the film. If you walk out of the trailer you never find out if it was actually good or if you were just tired and picky and a bit too impressed with your own standards.
What I look for now, if I am being honest
Did he listen. Did I like the way he treated the staff. Did I feel like I could drop the act for ten minutes without the whole thing collapsing. Did I want to see him again even if we did not kiss. That last one is the tell. If I only want him when there is a chance of a night attached, that is appetite. Appetite is fine. I have plenty of it. It is not the same as liking someone.
If I catch myself inventing reasons he failed the spark test, I ask whether I failed the paying-attention test. Usually I did. Usually I was clocking my reflection in the window behind his head.
Second dates are not a promise. They are just you admitting the first night is a rubbish exam. You were both a bit on. The lighting was bad. Someone mentioned their ex by accident. You spent too long deciding whether to get the second drink.
Give it one more if the person was kind and the night was only flat, not sour. If it is still dead, you have your answer and you have not been cheap with it.
And if the whoosh arrives later, in a Tesco aisle or on a pavement when you are not even trying, that is not you lowering your standards. That is you finally getting out of your own way.
Spark can wait an evening. A decent person should not have to audition for your nervous system in under an hour. I say that as someone who has made plenty of people audition. I am trying to stop. Some nights I manage it. Some nights I still want the trailer. I am working on liking the slow bits without calling them boring.
