I made the invitation smaller.

I had known Mateo for six weeks, which is long enough to know his coffee order and not long enough to know how he feels about communal changing rooms.

We met after a neighbourhood volunteering shift. Usually we talked until one of us remembered groceries. I liked him and wanted to suggest something beyond standing beside the same recycling bins.

My first draft of the invitation was a small brochure. It contained links, possible dates and a description of how good I thought he would feel afterwards. Reading it back, I sounded like I was recruiting him.

I asked about the idea first.

I deleted most of it. I said I was considering a bathhouse afternoon, gave him the rough cost and asked whether that sounded like his sort of thing. Coffee was also an option.

He said he liked the idea of spending time together, but was unsure about the setting. I resisted the urge to explain why every concern would disappear once he tried it. I did not actually know that.

Instead, we looked at the practical information together. What to wear, how changing worked, which session allowed conversation. Mateo said he would rather skip communal changing rooms. I closed the page instead of searching for a fourth way to sell him the same afternoon.

We bought coffee.

It was not a consolation coffee. It was the thing we had already been enjoying before I decided our friendship needed a more ambitious venue.

We sat inside because it was raining. Mateo told me about his brother's attempt to assemble a wardrobe in a room with a low ceiling. I told him about the invitation I had nearly sent. He asked whether it had included a payment plan.

A month later he suggested a museum afternoon. I said yes. I still went to the bathhouse on another day, with someone who had been asking to come.

I had wanted to see my new friend. Once I remembered that, the location became much easier to negotiate.