We are here ultimately because we're fed up with being unseen.
We've come here to be known, to share our inner lives, for another person to witness us as we really are.
But herein lies a paradox of early dating.
If we say too much too soon, if we too readily declare ourselves, if we show now what our last three partners knew, by the end we will be abandoned.
Were we to tell them right now, in this pretty restaurant with candlelight and Prince of Sicily and an interesting pear and almond tart for later, about the crisis at work, the illness we survived, the sort of sex we're really interested in, our susceptibility to anxiety and the amount of time we have to spend on work trips and with our families of birth?
They will run.
The full facts of any life are generally perilous to bear, and so we have few options other than to hedge.
Some may call it lying.
We prefer editing.
We tell them that our first relationship was somewhat stormy.
We remark that we've had a few ups and downs professionally.
Our father is described as intense.
The situation with our children is not always cheerful.
Our mood is occasionally melancholic.
We opt to say nothing at all about our kidneys and our brother-in-law.
This also won't be the moment to bring up the pending lawsuit.
As a result of such judicious management, we succeed.
There is a second date and a tenth.
We travel to the North Norfolk coast.
We go and see the Vermeers in Amsterdam.
They meet our friends D and P.
But this isn't what we're here for.
We've come to escape loneliness, not to replicate it in a socialised form.
The goal of love isn't to be admired, it's to be known.
It isn't for someone to believe that we're marvellous.
It's for them to understand us as pitiful and not take fright.
We want them to fathom our oddities, our prevarications, the appalling compromises we've made, the shameful things we've done, and for them to forgive us.
Anyone can be thought a hero.
We want to be known as the wretch we are and still be kept in mind.
It must, in the end, be a matter of judicious sequencing.
People can take a lot, so long as they first surveyed a basic capacity for decency and good sense.
By the 220th evening, they will have sufficient proof that we are all so kind, all so thoughtful, all so sane, and so will better be able to withstand the discovery of the sexual kink, our mental fragility and our tormented family bonds.
They won't flee when we finally describe the full details of the divorce and the legal challenges in our business, because they will have the balancing evidence of our long ministration through their stomach ailment and behaviour around the crisis with their friend in early June.
The months will have taught them that we are not merely foolish and thoughtless, not just impatient and very, very odd.
Parents know this lesson well enough.
There will come a time to mention what really happened with Granny and where the money actually went.
But they'll need to be on the far side of 12 years old, after many quiet readings of The Owl Who Loved Its Babies.
We need to cut the truth up so it can be metabolised by those we care for.
This isn't deceit.
It belongs to the paradoxical, eternally complicated work of love.