It was the perfect first date. Well, aside from the physical assault we witnessed. And the police intervention.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
The First Date
It was a Saturday, and it was the second night of two back-to-back first dates for me. I had agreed to the Friday night date only because it would be good practice for meeting you. I was glad we matched on Tinder, and you had already impressed me with your commentary on therapy, feminism, and toxic masculinity.
When I opened the door to Pizzaiolo that night, I hoped the tall man, leaning gently against the wall, wearing the blue-and-white striped crew-neck sweater, was you. I thought it might be. It was.
Soon, we were seated. The restaurant was dark, with candles providing soft light, but also warmth and ambiance. My body was still, which was rare for any date. Rare for any social encounter of any kind, really.
Neither of us doubted our initial connection. I know we both felt it. We dove deep into conversation, into each other, but it felt natural. You felt like someone I had known before. As we discussed attachment styles and activism, immigration and impostor syndrome, there was a newness in you that was exciting, but also a soothing familiarity.
Soon we had to leave because the restaurant was closing. It was late, and the neighborhood was dark, but we didn’t want to part ways. It seemed I had waited my whole life for this connection, this conversation; in the context of the date, of my life, of my romantic fairytale, my bedtime suddenly seemed meaningless. So we walked along the sidewalk, past the gas station, under the overpass, and all the way back again.
The Physical Assault
When we saw them yelling at each other, we paused across the street. Their language was foul; the man’s anger was palpable. We watched as he stormed away from the woman (whom we presumed was his girlfriend) and then ran back, forcefully pushing his body upon hers, shoving her repeatedly into the fence as he gripped her shoulders. We heard shouts, not ours and not theirs, and joined a collective group that rushed across the street and towards this couple. I called the police, and you helped create distance between these strangers. You helped the woman, who was sobbing and drunk, and showed genuine concern for her.
The police arrived, and I was too shaken to give a statement, so you did. As my body trembled, I watched you, composed and calm, in front of the camera. You recited the events with quiet confidence, conveying a coherent story.
And then we said “goodnight.”
The Aftermath
The evidence correlating adrenaline-pumped dates, attraction, and connection is substantial. I’ve read about it many times. We didn’t plan with this in mind, but maybe the universe created a perfect first date for us.
When I climbed into my bed that night, I texted a friend of mine: “He feels like home.”
I told Curtis: “I think I want to marry this guy.”
