Micro-dating is the new thing. Instead of a three-hour dinner, you meet for a 30-minute coffee or a walk. If there’s a spark, wonderful. If not, you’ve lost less time than it takes to assemble a bookshelf you’ll take to the tip in four years. It is dating designed by people who sat through so many meetings they now think love should have a hard stop.
Naturally, I approached it as a performance review. Below is the official assessment of my date with M, conducted in a café between 12:30 and 13:00, with a hard stop because M had “a thing”. The thing, I later learned, was another micro-date. At 13:15. Same café.
Section 1: Punctuality (4/5)
M arrived at 12:31. On a three-hour date, one minute is nothing. On a 30-minute date, it is 3.3 percent of the relationship. I chose not to mention this. I did make a note. I make notes about everything. It is why nobody stays.
Section 2: Opening Small Talk (3/5)
We discussed the weather for four minutes. Under micro-dating rules, this is a catastrophic misallocation of resources. Four minutes is enough to find out whether someone owns a cat, a podcast or a pyramid scheme. We found out it was “close” outside. We agreed. It was the most aligned I’ve been with anyone since my last appraisal, and that one ended in a “managed exit”.
Section 3: Depth of Conversation (2/5, Mitigating Circumstances Noted)
At minute eleven, M began telling me about their relationship with their sister. It was moving. It was also far too long for the format. We fast-forwarded through most of their twenties. At one point I said, “And any key learnings?” like a consultant. M looked at me the way you look at a self-checkout announcing an unexpected item in the bagging area, and the item is you.
Section 4: Chemistry (Insufficient Data)
Chemistry, I’m told, takes time. Scientists have spent centuries on it. We had nineteen minutes, a sticky table and a muffin we were both too polite to finish. If there was a spark, it came from the coffee machine, which has since been condemned.
Chemistry takes time. We had nineteen minutes and a muffin we were both too polite to finish.
Section 5: Exit Strategy (5/5)
This is where micro-dating excels. At 12:58, M glanced at their watch. At 12:58 and a half, I glanced at mine. We stood up in perfect harmony, like synchronised swimmers who have just remembered they can’t swim. “This was lovely,” said M. “So lovely,” I said. We walked off in opposite directions. The café is on a cul-de-sac. We passed each other again eleven seconds later and both pretended to be on the phone.
Overall Assessment
Meets expectations, narrowly. Shows potential for growth, the way everyone does until about 38. Would benefit from a follow-up session of up to 45 minutes, subject to calendar availability, emotional budget and M not finding someone better at 13:15.
I messaged M afterwards to say I’d love to do it again. M replied, “Yes! Maybe a longer one next time?” and I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: the specific panic of being offered more time with a person, by a person, voluntarily.
Lessons for Fellow Micro-Daters
- Do not bring a written agenda. I did. It had bullet points. M asked to see it, then photographed it. It now lives in a group chat I will never see, being read aloud.
- Do not order anything that needs cutlery. Cutlery is a commitment.
- Do not say “let’s circle back”. You are on a date, not a roadmap, and nobody circles back. They just circle.
- If it’s going well, resist the urge to “run over by ten”. Nothing kills romance faster than treating it like a meeting that’s overrunning, except treating it like a meeting.
We were meeting again on Saturday. Forty-five minutes. A walk. I blocked out fifteen more for the debrief. On Friday, M sent a message: “Actually going to see where things go with someone, sorry! You’re lovely x”. I did the debrief anyway. Alone, in the car, radio off. It ran over by ten.