The last thirty seconds of a first date are the most awkward in modern romance. One Sheffield goodbye went spectacularly wrong — and it didn’t matter.
Tom, 31, from Sheffield, will tell anyone who asks that the date itself was a ten. Three hours in a bar in Kelham Island that was only ever supposed to be one drink. They argued about whether a hot dog is a sandwich. She did an impression of her boss that made him snort his lager. At one point he checked his phone for the time and realised he was disappointed it was getting late.
The goodbye, he says, was a two. And he’s being generous.
They’d matched on Wisp on the Monday. By Wednesday he’d asked her out — Priya, 29, a radiographer with a profile photo taken halfway up Mam Tor — and by Friday they were standing outside the bar at 11pm, at the end of one of the best nights either of them had had in months.
Then it happened.
Tom went in for the hug. Priya went in for the kiss on the cheek. He changed course mid-move to match her, she changed course to match him, and the two of them met somewhere in the middle, forehead to cheekbone, with a soft thud that a passing group of students applauded.
He panicked. He said — and he’s asked us to be clear he has no idea why — “Well! Onwards.” Then he set off walking with enormous purpose in the wrong direction, realised after forty metres, and had to walk back past her while she stood outside the bar, crying laughing, waiting for her taxi.
Everyone has a version of this story. The dismount is the hardest part of any first date, and nobody talks about it. We rehearse openers. We plan venues. We carry three anecdotes and a podcast fact in reserve. Then the evening ends and we’re suddenly two people on a pavement with no script at all.
Wisp polled its users on this last month: 64% said the goodbye was the most awkward moment of a first date. Not the hello. Not the bill. The goodbye, by a distance.
There’s a reason. The end of a first date is the first moment of truth the whole evening contains. Everything before it can hide inside pleasantness — laughing at the jokes, splitting the padron peppers, being a good audience. The goodbye is where you have to declare something. Hug, kiss, handshake, “this was fun” — every option is a statement about what you think just happened and what you’d like to happen next. No wonder we fall apart.
Here’s what the etiquette actually asks of you, and it’s less than you think. You don’t need a smooth move. You need a clear sentence. “I’d really like to do this again” — said before the physical bit, not instead of it — does more work than any perfectly executed cheek kiss ever could. It takes the question mark out of the air. Whatever your arms do afterwards is just punctuation.
There are only two real mistakes. The first is vagueness — “we should do this again sometime” delivered in the tone you’d use to end a work call, which leaves the other person doing forensics on the bus home. Wisp data shows dates followed by a concrete plan within 24 hours are more than twice as likely to lead to a third. The second mistake is performing an exit you don’t mean — warmth you don’t feel, promises you won’t keep. The goodbye isn’t a test of choreography. It’s the first honest thing the evening asks you to say.
And if it goes wrong anyway? It almost never matters. Awkwardness isn’t a verdict on the date. Most of the time it’s evidence the date worked — you don’t headbutt someone you’re indifferent to. Indifference is smooth. Interest fumbles.
Priya, for the record, never made it to her taxi in any doubt. She texted him from the back seat: “You headbutted me and I’d still like that second drink.” Tom read it at the bottom of the wrong street, walking back the way he’d come for the second time that night.
That was March. They’ve stopped counting dates now. The hot dog question remains unresolved.
So if you’re sitting on a great evening that ended in a fumble — a missed kiss, a weird wave, a “well, onwards” of your own — send the text anyway. The last thirty seconds don’t get a vote on the first three hours.
And if you’re still waiting for a date good enough to end badly, that’s the bit Wisp was built for. Match, ask, meet. The goodbye’s on you.