The first font question arrived before dessert. I should have recognised it as a change in the nature of the evening. Instead I answered, because I was a designer, he was attractive and the question took approximately ten seconds.

'Sans serif or serif?' Lachlan asked.

'For what?'

'A business.'

'Which business?'

'Exactly,' he said, smiling. 'You get it.'

I did not yet get it. I was about to spend a surprisingly long evening getting it.

We'd matched a fortnight earlier. I was thirty-six, he was thirty-eight, and we lived on opposite sides of Melbourne. His messages were funny without being a continuous audition. He asked about my day. He remembered a story about my neighbour's extremely political dog, who objected to every council vehicle regardless of department.

Our first drink became dinner. Dinner became a walk. Somewhere during the walk he kissed me, and the kiss suggested a useful shared vocabulary that did not involve typography.

For our second date, he invited me over. He said he'd cook. I liked a person willing to choose a plan, and I liked that he'd asked what I ate before choosing it. When I arrived, he was genuinely cooking. There were pans, chopped vegetables and the familiar concentration of someone trying to time three things without admitting one had finished early.

I offered to help. He asked me to open the wine. This was a reasonable division of labour. We talked while he cooked, and I felt the particular pleasure of a date beginning well in a place without a waiter to keep it moving.

His flat was comfortable. Plants. A framed photograph of a hiking trip. A couch that looked chosen for sitting rather than making a statement. I put my bag beside it and expected to stay a while.

Over dinner, he mentioned he was launching a small consultancy. I asked what kind. He explained clearly, and I wished him luck. Starting something was exciting and occasionally terrifying. I'd done it myself.

'You must know all about that,' he said. 'Running your own studio.'

'Small studio. Mostly me, occasionally a printer behaving itself.'

He laughed. Then came the font question.

I explained that the choice depended on the business, the audience and how the identity would be used. This was not a complete consultation. It was the sort of general answer I'd give at a barbecue while holding a sausage.

He nodded thoughtfully. 'That's what I thought. I've got a couple of rough options.'

He reached for his laptop.

'Now?' I asked, smiling because I still assumed this was a brief detour.

'Just a quick look. You're here.'

I was indeed there. So were a lamp and several indoor plants, none of which had been invited to provide professional services.

He opened a folder containing twelve logo attempts. They were variations on an abstract shape beside the business name. Some were blue. Some were green. One had a swoosh that looked as though it had arrived from an earlier decade carrying business cards.

'What do you reckon?'

I gave a cautious answer. 'I'd need a proper brief before judging them properly. But I wouldn't start by choosing colours.'

'Right. What would you start with?'

I put my wine glass down. 'Lachlan, I do this for work. I don't really want to turn tonight into a work session.'

He closed the laptop halfway. 'Of course. Sorry. Just excited.'

That was a perfectly acceptable response. People got enthusiastic. People also corrected course when someone pointed out the direction they'd wandered. I relaxed again.

He cleared the plates. I helped carry them to the kitchen. We talked about his sister's upcoming wedding and my plan to take a short holiday in Tasmania. He asked what I'd do there. I said walk, read and avoid opening design files.

'A theme,' he said.

'A beautiful one.'

We sat on the couch. He moved closer. We kissed, and for several minutes the evening recovered all the promise it had arrived with.

Then he pulled back and said, 'Would a logo normally include the social media versions?'

I stared at him.

He smiled as though he'd made a charmingly absent-minded mistake. 'Sorry. Last one.'

'It depends on the scope.'

'And turnaround?'

'Lachlan.'

'Right. Sorry.'

I moved a little further back on the couch. Not dramatically. Enough to hear myself think without his knee against mine.

He noticed. 'Have I killed the mood?'

'You've put it on a project schedule.'

He laughed. I didn't join him immediately. He seemed to assume the joke meant the problem had become harmless.

'I just value your opinion,' he said.

'You can value it tomorrow during business hours.'

'Fair enough.'

There was a silence. He asked about my holiday again, but now I could feel him waiting for an opening. When I mentioned a small hotel I liked, he asked whether its branding was good. When I talked about the ferry, he asked whether simple symbols were easier to remember. Every road led back to the laptop.

It was almost impressive. If he'd brought this level of persistence to discussing my interests, we might have had a lovely evening.

I asked directly whether he'd invited me over partly because he wanted design help.

'No,' he said quickly. 'I wanted to see you.'

'And the twelve logo options?'

'I thought we could bounce ideas around. Isn't that fun for you?'

Sometimes it was. With a client who had agreed to a scope and a fee, it was very satisfying. With a friend whose birthday invitation I offered to help with, it could be fun too. The missing part here was the offer. He kept behaving as though my presence had included it automatically.

'I enjoy my work,' I said. 'I don't want to do it every time someone finds out what I do.'

He leaned back. 'I wasn't asking you to do the whole thing.'

'What were you asking for?'

He counted on his fingers before apparently realising that counting made the request look less tiny. Feedback on the direction. A better font pairing. Maybe a rough sketch. Something he could show his business partner. Nothing polished.

The familiar phrase arrived at the end: 'It'd take you no time.'

I looked at him, then at the laptop waiting on the coffee table.

'It took me years to be able to do it quickly.'

He opened his mouth, closed it and tried another approach.

'I could buy you dinner.'

'You did buy dinner. We were on a date.'

He seemed genuinely confused by the distinction, which did not improve things.

I thought about the messages we'd exchanged. He had asked about my studio early on. I had enjoyed talking about it because he'd seemed interested in how I spent my days. Now I couldn't tell whether the interest had been in me, the service or a convenient combination. I didn't need to solve his entire motivation to know I no longer wanted to sit there.

'I think I'm going to head home,' I said.

He looked surprised. 'Because I asked a question?'

'Because I answered, then asked to stop, and we kept returning to it.'

He didn't argue loudly. He simply kept trying to make the issue smaller. Just advice. Just excitement. Just a chat. Each just removed another part of the time and attention he'd been requesting.

I stood and collected my bag. He offered to call me a car. I thanked him and said I'd arrange my own. At the door, he asked if we could try again, no shop talk.

'I don't think so,' I said. 'But I hope the business goes well.'

I meant that. His business could succeed perfectly well without my unpaid contribution or my continued romantic involvement.

On the ride home, I messaged a friend who also freelanced. I told her the short version.

She replied: Did he ask for the source files before or after the kiss?

I laughed despite myself. Then I put the phone away and watched the city go past. I was annoyed, but beneath it was a simpler feeling: relief that I hadn't stayed another hour trying to make a date happen around a proposal.

Before starting work the next morning, I called my regular collaborator about an actual project. We discussed a colour proof, disagreed about a heading and found a better solution between us. It was absorbing, friendly work. Nobody had to pretend it wasn't work in order to make it enjoyable.

After the call, I looked at the notes on my desk and felt some of the previous evening's irritation settle. I hadn't become precious about a font. I still loved the process. I just liked entering it with everyone understanding why we were there. That seemed a fairly modest requirement for both business and dating.

Then I made coffee, opened my inbox and found a new message. I recognised the subject immediately.

Lachlan had emailed three attachments to the address on my website. The message was cheerful. Lovely seeing you. Here's the stuff we discussed. Would love your thoughts when you get a sec.

I read it at my desk, during the part of the day when people were welcome to request work. Somehow he had finally brought the conversation to the correct place, even if he hadn't noticed.

I replied as I would to any prospective client. Thank you for the enquiry. Based on the materials, the first step would be a paid discovery session. I outlined what it would cover, the cost, available dates and what wasn't included. I attached my standard terms.

No inflated revenge price. No sarcastic line item for emotional inconvenience. An ordinary quote for an ordinary professional service.

Then I answered the separate personal message he'd sent to my phone. Thank you for dinner. I don't want another date. Wishing you well with the launch.

He replied to the email before the text. He hadn't realised it would be a formal project, he said. He was hoping for a few friendly pointers.

I explained that the requested feedback was the service I sold. If he wanted to book it, the options were in the quote. If not, no problem.

He didn't book. That was also fine. People were allowed to decide a service wasn't in their budget. They were simply not entitled to convert a date into an alternative payment method.

A week later, I had dinner with my friend. She asked if there'd been any developments with the logo man.

'No. The project didn't proceed.'

'And the other project?'

'Also closed.'

She raised her glass. 'Excellent administration.'

I raised mine. Across the restaurant, two people leaned towards each other over a small table, laughing. One reached for the other's hand. Nobody opened a laptop.

It looked very promising.