The word brutal may sound a little hyperbolic and self-pitying when applied to an activity whose chief outward requirements involve attending romantic restaurants, ordering olives, sharing small plates, and at points perhaps exchanging kisses near the bus stop.
Those in couples, and especially those who've been in them a long time, can be forgiven for wondering what on earth the fuss might be about.
However, for those of us who know the activity from the inside, who suffer from despondency and fury and may have found themselves bursting into tears after yet another disappointment, the word brutal when applied to dating may be an understatement.
The reasons are multiple.
Firstly, this isn't just about one evening.
What's at stake extends far beyond a single encounter.
This isn't about the quest for an interesting conversation list or a new sexual partner.
It's generally about the very long-term future, the acute question of who will be there when our heart spasms, when we're too frail to make it across the living room unaided, and when we can barely remember our names.
The evening, so innocuous in its outward form, so enlivened by the arrival of a smiling waiter, is in essence a referendum on whether or not we must die alone.
Beneath the outward lightness of the occasion lies a piercing existential cry: When will I find a home?
