He’s holding a kitten in his main profile photo. Twenty-eight. Engineer. Lives in Oakland. I swipe right. We match. We banter back and forth. (You know the story). We make plans to go bowling later in the week. When the time comes for the date, I find I’m feeling quite indifferent — the same way one feels about extra flavors of ketchup. Regular ketchup is all you need, you know?
7:33 p.m.: My date picks me up from BART in his car, a truck that would surely be named Roberta if anyone took the time to see her for who she really is. I realize it is a bad idea to get into a car with a stranger, and my defenses include sharing my location with a friend, knowing that I outweigh this person by at least 24 more pounds, and having a knife with my name engraved on it in my purse.
7:44 p.m.: We order beers at the bowling-alley bar to drink, first. I’m a fan of activity dates and am glad we’re bowling. I want to see the way people move and react to losing, and interact with the old man in a cowboy hat. (Will they hold the door open for him? Or are they a horrible person?) I don’t want to just stare at a stranger’s face while I swallow mediocre cocktails that have a slight fish-bowl odor.
8:01 p.m.: Andrew tells me about his mom, who trains dogs. I tell him about a few of my favorite things, which include olives.He tells me that emotionally driven people baffle him and that there is a fine line between being emotionally driven and crazy. I tell him that there is a fine line between being completely logic driven and a sociopath.
8:32 p.m.: We order another beer to pair with our bowling shoes and discover that we wear the same size. I secretly love bowling shoes and revel in the way they look against tights.
8:38 p.m.: I decide I want bumpers to better bowl with, and Andrew copies me. We compromise on a sea-creature-themed bowling game. I realize that he’s the kind of guy who probably masturbates to the Hamilton soundtrack, but I don’t tell him that.
8:44 p.m.: There is a couple bowling next to us, and the woman leans over to tell me that they are bowling for the status of their relationship. If he wins, they break up. If she wins, they have to stay together. He is currently losing and looks extremely distressed about it.
8:52 p.m.: I wonder if they met on Tinder.
8:57 p.m.: Andrew and I begin to flirt in the hand-on-the-back, scrunchie-in-the-hair kind of way. (As a reward for winning, I put my scrunchie in his hair to air off his forehead.)
9:31 p.m.: He asks if I would like another drink. I tell him sure, since I am 1.5 hours away from my bedtime, and ask where he has in mind. He suggests his house.
Nooo. I tell him I would rather not but thank him for the offer. He asks me why. I tell him it’s because I don’t want to, but I do want to make out in his car like a 16-year-old with parents and siblings who run in and out of the house like chaos.
9:44 p.m.: We are in his car. It’s awkward and quiet, and you can never get those moments back before you first kiss a person, so I try to treasure them, but also considering my bedtime, I would like to get this show on the road.
9:46 p.m.: We kiss, and my very sensitive face is scraped by his beard. It hurts quite a lot, and I feel like I’m kissing Robin Williams awake from the dead.
10:11 p.m.: I notice we’ve fogged up all the windows, and I feel a certain pride in this—in this weird thing created by the business of being alive, by breaths.
10:15 p.m.: He wants to make sure, again, that I am sure I don’t want to come over, because he has blackout curtains. And a comfortable bed. And really good sleep hygiene. When I tell him I don’t, he asks why again.
I don’t need to tell him why. (You don’t need to tell anyone why). I tell him he’s killed the make-out vibes.
10:18 p.m.: I take my scrunchie out of his hair and venture to BART, where surely no one will ask me why I don’t want to come home with them (I hope).
