First First Date

My first first date in months had me sitting outside in a beer garden on a rainy February night for three hours so he could chainsmoke cigarettes while talking to me about Christianity. He said he was a churchgoer, so I tugged at my tiger print sleeves and asked him what he thought about the role of women in the Bible.

I thought it must be nice to believe in God. He asked if I went to church, and I told him I was in a coven, and he asked what had possessed me to join something like that. I asked if he meant which demon in particular, and he questioned with wide eyes and a straight face if I was being serious.

I crossed my legs over the wooden benches in the courtyard and traced the knots in the beams, feeling insecure about the tinsel in my hair. I wondered what I looked like under the colorful lanterns while I was sat there getting smoke blown in my face. I hoped it wouldn’t settle into my clothes and tried to think of something to ask him. He knew nothing about soul music or disco, but he said he’d listen to my favorite band on his drive home. I adjusted my top, and he watched me like an animal on exhibit, and I wished I was one so I’d be behind a sheet of glass. While he talked at me about coke and milestones, I wondered if he realized I was sentient or not listening.

After an hour, I started digging my nails into my skin under the table. I squeezed my hand into a tight fist, counted to six, and ran my fingertips over the divets they left in my palm. I wanted to know how he felt about being a decade older than me and joked that if the date didn’t work out he could adopt me if he wanted to. There must be something I can say that a man won’t laugh off. One day someone will raise their voice at me when I am blunt and uncaring, and I’ll love them for it.

I nursed one cider and said it was my bedtime. When we went to walk separate ways at the corner outside the pub, I offered a polite hug, and he kissed me before I realized what was happening.

I didn’t want to be kissing this man, who started pulling at my waist. I wished that someone could hear my skin screaming, and I wondered how I could ever have savored the taste of cigarettes on someone’s breath when now I felt like gagging.

I wanted to feel pretty, and I wanted to be seen. But pain doesn’t wait for a witness, so instead I drove home shaking, with my hand over my heart, and 20 minutes left before I could wash his saliva out of my mouth. I kicked off my slippers and brushed my teeth, and I thought about being hard to love.