Warning: This short story contains content about assault. Please discern whether or not you wish to read further.
For every first date I go into, I have two questions which run around wreaking havoc in my head: What if this is the love of my life and this is my last first date ever? and What if this man is a serial killer and this is my last date ever?
I’m 27, I’ve been on dozens of first dates — dear Lord, maybe even hundreds — and I have yet to meet a serial killer (I think). But I have also been nowhere near meeting my supposed soulmate. With every date that passes, I am less and less confident that that man even exists.
Mr. Right, the man of my dreams, my perfect match… What a load of bulls***. Quite frankly, I’m starting to think it’s a myth. Don’t get me wrong, I actually do want to get married and be in love, maybe even have kids someday. But D.C. is a small city and I fear that the dating pool is no longer evaporating, but bone dry at this point. There isn’t a damn thing dreamy or perfect about the men I’ve been seeing. So now I just show up — pepper spray tucked into the bottom of my purse — and pray that I don’t end up on the next episode of Dateline.
I hope my cynicism doesn’t rub off on Erin. He’s a Southern boy from Austin with a degree in computer science from Rice University. He moved to D.C. for a job as an attorney for a civil rights lobbying company. An attorney and an activist? That’s my type of man. He’s got a cute smile and is supposedly 6 '3 according to his Hinde profile (likely 5' 11). He seems harmless over text, no inappropriate messages or demands for nudes, and he asked me out for Thai food (my favorite) so I guess that’s a good start? I am cautiously optimistic that this will be a somewhat good first date.
Emphasis on cautiously… and on somewhat. I’ve learned it’s all about balancing expectations. I was a little too hopeful for my date with the misogynistic redpill podcaster, the nice guy who said I “owed him” sex after paying for a $15 dinner, and the self-proclaimed “iPad kid” who stared at a game on his phone without saying a word the entire dinner. And now my expectations are low enough to step over with my 3-inch Louis-Vitton knock-off heels.
As I walk into the restaurant — looking fine as ever, if I do say so myself — I get those nervous butterflies in my stomach, the ones that tell me this is a bad idea, what on earth are you doing, Jenny? But I already put on my makeup, heels, and my go-to little black dress, and I’m a sucker for Thai food. So I tell those silly little butterflies to stop fluttering and let the hostess know I have a reservation for Erin, party of two.
She leads me over to the corner table already taken by a handsome man in a dark suit -– no tie, top two buttons undone. He stands up to greet me, a silk press shirt and fitted slacks revealing an athletic build. He’s taller than I thought and even cuter in person. The butterflies start fluttering for a different reason.
“You must be Jenny. It’s lovely to meet you.” His voice is deep with a slight Southern drawl. It’s quite charming in a sophisticated cowboy sort of way.
“Hi, Erin. It’s so nice to finally meet you in person.” He pulls out my chair as I take my coat off. “Why thank you, such a gentleman,” I respond to this surprising act of chivalry — it was a simple gesture but one I’m unfamiliar with. I sit across from him, meeting his gaze and holding it for the first time. His smile looks a bit crooked now that I see it up close. But with his bright white teeth and piercing blue eyes it’s hard to see any sort of flaws.
“I must say you look beautiful. I was already amazed by your profile pictures but even they don’t do your beauty justice,” Erin says without breaking eye contact. He really is quite the charmer — one minute into dinner and I’m already blushing.
“That’s so sweet. I was just thinking the same about you…you’re very handsome yourself, Erin.” He must see me blushing below my already rouged cheeks. He laughs, his crooked smile and steady eye contact refusing to waver.
We go through the usual first date steps — Where are you from? What brought you to D.C.? What do you do for work? What do you do in your free time?...I already stalked his online profile enough to know his answer to the first three questions but his fourth answer pleasantly surprised me. I mentioned my love of cooking, running, writing and jigsaw puzzles (dorky, I know, but he made me feel comfortable with sharing). He perks up at the mention of puzzles…“I love puzzles, I try to do a jigsaw puzzle once a week” and the similarities continue: “cooking and writing are two of my favorite hobbies. I really enjoy being able to express myself on paper and even on a plate,” he says with a slight chuckle. I was surprised, based on his Instagram pictures, I would have guessed he was a combination between gym bro and golf guy, but these interests go unnoted. Maybe we have more in common than I thought?
As the server brings out our dinner — pad see ew for me, a chicken curry for Erin and an order of spring rolls to share — I’m even more smiley than my cute date. He’s gentlemanly, handsome, funny, considerate, we even have things in common… could this actually be a good first date?
We continue to gab for another hour. He tells me about growing up in Austin and spending his summers rafting on Lake Travis. I talk about my job as a copy editor for The Washington Post and my dream to one day be a news writer covering international stories, and he actually listens. There are no awkward silences or off-putting remarks, just two people who just met actually getting along. And when the bill comes, his chivalrous side presents itself once more. I don’t even have to fake shuffling through my purse pretending to look for a card with no credit left on it; he takes the bill without question—I might just be in love. I can’t deny it, this man has me smitten. Which makes saying no to what he asks next even harder.
“I’ve had a great time and don’t want this night to end. Would you like to come back to my place for a night cap, Jenny?” As tempting as his offer sounds, especially when said with a touch of Southern charm, I don’t go home with a guy on a first date. It’s a tried and true policy of mine — too many so-called “night caps” have ended with a sweaty man desperately putting the moves on me and getting offended by my rejection. Erin seems like a keeper. He’ll understand if I say no, right?
“As much as I’d love to, I probably shouldn't. It’s already late, and I have work early in the morning.” His crooked smile goes still for a split second—the left corner momentarily level with the right.
“Of course, we’ll just have to raincheck. I would love to go on a second date with you, Jenny. Maybe drinks and a movie this time?”
“That sounds lovely. Thank you for understanding. I had a great time, a good Hinge date is a rare find. We must keep the momentum going!,” he chuckled, as if I was joking. Mr. Perfect is already raising my very low standards for men — I can’t wait to see what he does for date number two.
“Did you drive here? If not I’m happy to give you a ride,” Erin asked.
No first date carpools—-another one of my principles and another lesson painfully learned. Men are more than willing to put the moves on you even with a wheel in front of them and a center console giving the illusion of safe distance. “You’re sweet but I’m ok. I drove here, I’m just parked in the lot”.
“I'm headed that way. I’ll walk you out. Anything for another second to look into those beautiful eyes of yours,” Erin’s smirk widened.
How did I find this man? Every word out of his mouth sounds like a line from a Hallmark movie, and I love it. I feel like the big city girl who’s finally found the small town Southern boy to sweep me off my feet. He places his arm on the small of my back as we stroll through the rows of the now near-empty lot. Forgetting where I parked (as I tend to do), I grab my keys and click the unlock button.
“Oh how funny, we parked right next to each other. I’m the blue Honda.“ We approach the cars, and he lingers by my side. “I’ll open the door for you.”
“Chivalry is alive and well I see,” I say. No witty retort this time. Instead he inches closer to my side, almost pushing into me as I walk the final few steps to the driver’s seat. Maybe he wants a kiss? Maybe a goodbye hug? A parking lot isn’t my ideal romantic first kiss venue, but I’d be willing to let Erin convince me otherwise. His hand moves from my back around my right side.
He grabs me. Not in a gentle way. Not in an affectionate way. Not in the Hallmark movie sort of way. His arms wrap around my waist, squeezing me tight as his hands press together against my stomach. The ground slips away from my feet as he drags me away from the driver’s side.
I have no time to think, no time to panic as his entire body pushes me closer to the car right next to mine.
“What are you doing??? Let go of me, Erin!!!” I jolt my upper body back and flail my legs but I am helpless with both arms pinned to my side. Only a few feet to go before I am captive. He planned this too well. He opens the passenger door to his car while I fight against his now one-handed grip.
This is my chance. My right arm now free, I place my car key in-between my two middle fingers and jam my fist into his neck with as much force as I can muscle. He loosens his grip, instinctively moving his hand to the open wound. Big mistake. I break my other arm free, reaching for the pepper spray strategically placed in the open side pocket of my purse and spray him right in his perfect, cruel face. The spray smells of hand sanitizer and toxic spicy chili peppers. I can barely open my eyes from the fumes, but I can see the outline of this massive man still within inches of me.
I push him back into the car he tried to force me into, slamming the door into his legs as he stumbles—blind and bleeding. Fight is over. Flight is my only option now.
“HELP. THIS MAN IS TRYING TO KILL ME,” I scream but no one is around to hear me. The air thick and nothing but the sound of my heels on the pavement and my bruised lungs fighting for breath to keep me company. I weave through the few remaining cars in the lot, heading straight for the restaurant we just left. Less than a hundred feet may be the difference between victim and survivor. I don’t look back. Looking back when being chased is like looking down when walking a tightrope. Just keep moving forward or you might slip, falling to a painful death.
I weave through the few remaining cars in the lot, heading straight for the restaurant we just left. My legs feel numb, my breath replaced by desperate gasps interspersed with useless cries that no one but Erin can hear. I run straight into the restaurant doors without stopping to see if it was even still open—thank God they didn’t lock the doors after we left. I lock the door behind me, my breath as unstable as the legs below me. Two servers and a bus boy stare at me in shock.
“Someone call the police. I—I think I was almost just kidnapped.” My voice wavers but my message is clear. The bus boy drops his plate of dishes as the server runs to the side door to make sure it’s locked. I sink to the ground. Tears rushing down my cheeks mixed with sweat and spray, I sit facing the front door in case he comes back.
He was gone before the police got there, leaving only a small pool of blood behind courtesy of my handiwork. The police were unwilling to track down what they deemed an “alleged attacker” based on a few profile pictures, an alias, and a description of a handsome, seemingly perfect man. I had to beg them to even file a report.
I guess (and pray) I’ll never see Mr. Perfect again. Who knows what he wanted from me or what would have happened if I agreed to a “nightcap” at his place. All I really know is that this was my last first date for a long while. No more dreaded dating apps, no more shitty dates, and no more fearing for my life with every new man I meet.
I’m perfectly ok with being single.
