Approaching / Allowing
The Entryways Between Us
For those who believe emotional proximity is the first meaningful occurrence.
French Connections was made to be read like a letter—slowly, personally, and with someone in mind. The stories stay close, even after the last line.
As part of the Social Reflections series.
You can set the table. Choose the time, the guests, the place. But what opens between people, that’s never up to you.
I’ve hosted enough to know: even clarity leaves room for interpretation. You can offer a “conversation,” and someone will still read “workshop.” You can write “free flow,” and someone will still ask who’s moderating. Yet every once in a while, something steadier and reciprocal holds.
There was an early night at Early June, Jean Poulmarch Street—three guests. The room was dim, the kind that softens decision-making. We’d only just sat down, still adjusting napkins and eye contact. One held his wine like it was a microphone, but didn’t speak much. Another asked quick questions, like skipping stones. The third took his time—arrived last, settled slow, listened deeply. Months later, he proposed a drink.
This piece isn’t about pure hosting, or the art of guessing guesting. It’s about how people approach one another, often unknowingly, by trial and error. The recalibrations. The fumbles, stumbles, or bubbles. The slow approach. And sometimes, an allowed entry.
Approaching. Allowing. Rarely at the same time. Never quite equal. Still, when someone chooses whether to meet you, oh you, how does it feel, to be let in?
The First Tries
They came one by one, as the light began to shift. I’d chosen the hour for dinner, not knowing how intimate the candles would feel once they were lit.
K. arrived first—Maryland-born, fluent, quick to gesture with only his forefinger pressed softly against his lips, as if holding back brilliance. He removed his scarf, draped it over the back of the chair, and checked his phone once before setting it aside. His French was excellent. His references to Proust and Saint-Simon came too early, too fully formed. The first twenty minutes were shaped by his voice alone.
Then came B.—early twenties, French. We’d met twice before, but her tone slipped straight into familiarity. She smiled with warmth, tilted her head toward me like a confidante, and called me her mentor. It was sweet. It was also too soon. I smiled, “yeah, yeah,” but it landed somewhere between endearing and misplaced. She wasn’t overreaching; she was just fast.
The last to arrive was quiet. He arrived soft-footed, folded into the group without adjusting himself. I barely registered him, only his quietness, and how he took his seat barely speaking. There were moments where he listened, deliberately, without ever nodding.
I refilled water. Shifted cutlery. Watched as conversation leaned toward literature and strayed into timelines—how long each person had lived in France, where they had studied, what they were building. The carafe left a ring of condensation on the tablecloth. A chair creaked as someone shifted. The candles blurred the table’s edge. I hadn’t expected them to pull us that close, or to stretch glances just past their natural length.
After the two-hour reglementary duration for a dinner, K. asked if we should go for a walk. No one replied right away. B. began gathering her things without actually standing up. The man who’d been quiet the whole time stood first, but didn’t lead. The chairs scraped, then paused, as if deciding who’d leave first. Someone said thank you. The walk didn’t happen.
I left shortly after. There’s always that moment, where no one wants to end the night, but no one knows how to stretch it either. I stepped out into the air and walked alone for a while, past shuttered storefronts and still-lit restaurants.
I didn’t know it yet, but one of them would reach out again.
The Door We Notice
L. reached out through the app first. I was hosting again. He asked if I’d be around this summer, said he’d enjoyed our last dinner.
We then moved to WhatsApp easily. It made things smoother—for tone, and for logistics.
“Would you be open to a drink before I leave in August?”
I asked for coffee instead, as I didn’t feel like managing a drink. L. agreed instantly, before it had even landed.
He didn’t push. I didn’t delay. The pace settled into something workable. He proposed a day. I adjusted. My reply came with boundaries. Polite ones, but clear—my family was coming to town.
We landed on a Friday. But his work picked up, and the meeting hour became uncertain. We were both aware I had a fixed time by which I’d need to leave.
L. offered to confirm once things settled. I suggested we postpone entirely.
“That way there’s no pressure on either side. We can find a better moment when things ease up a bit.”
It felt cleaner than rushing, or squeezing a conversation into the wrong shape. Plus, it’d give me more time to celebrate with my family.
That’s when he further attuned and replied this:
“Appreciate you giving me the option. Wishing you a beautiful time together.
Let’s have a cocktail for a sunny day soon!”
It wasn’t a line to wrap things up. It was a gesture of care. Measured, well-placed, and complete in itself. His entire conduct across our exchanges had followed a tone we rarely encounter. Steady, attentive, thoughtful. Simply well handled.
And that, for what it was, left me with a tone I wanted to trust.
The Entryways Between Us
It had started with one dinner. Then months of silence. Then this.
Approaching. Allowing. They arrive out of sequence. One steps forward, the other weighs the ground.
There’s no guarantee either knows what they’re doing. People try. Sometimes clumsily, sometimes with care. Sometimes both.
L. didn’t make promises. But he didn’t disappear, either. He adjusted. Rescheduled. Rephrased. Offered clarity when the moment needed it. Not to signal anything larger, but because it felt like the right shape for the exchange.
I noticed that. And I kept noticing.
What stayed wasn’t a plan. Nor chemistry. Not even a story to retell.
A reply that simply landed. The yes, easy and unforced.
It was a sense that someone had approached well. Steadily, without pressure, in a progress that never outpaced mine.
Sometimes it isn’t the door that matters, rather how someone stands near it—unhurried, open, not asking for entry.
Approaching: You notice the door because of how they’ve allowed it to become visible. And suddenly, it feels easier to walk toward and across.
Allowing: Not every doorway opens on arrival. But some invite approach, because of how they were seen.
Not a conclusion. More than nothing. A kind of residue.
And sometimes, that’s the opening.
✒️ For those inclined
Have you ever noticed someone approaching you in a way that made you want to open the door?
What made it work? Or not?
When was the last time someone’s care felt well-paced? What tone did it leave behind?
✦ Your move.
Circle back to someone you didn’t expect to think of today.
French Connections is built on reciprocated attention.
Thank you for being here.
