I can hardly wait for Wednesday night.  By the time it rolls around I am a ball of nerves.  Brenna is on a video call, helping me choose my outfit.  We’ve narrowed it down to a blue dress, or jeans and a flirty yellow top.  

“It’s a first date, Mar!  You’ve gotta do it up a bit!”

I hold the blue dress up.  “I know, but what if I look like I’m trying too hard?”

“You want to look like you’re trying!  Sexy jeans for later dates.  Do the blue dress tonight.”

I put on the dress, do a little light makeup, and slip on some gold earrings, thankful I’ve ended the call with Brenna before she can consult me on makeup and jewelry.  I don’t want to shout into his face that I find him attractive and have boobs.  No offense, Brenna.

At seven o’clock I am stalling outside my front door.  David and Sean are two tiny ghosts circling my head, whispering that men only want to have sex with me and that it doesn’t even have to be me.  I unlock my door and go back inside.  I need to do a mini-exorcism.  

One thing I dislike about apartment living is that I can’t ever truly scream.  I bury my face into a couch cushion and scream into it.  “FUCK YOUUUUUUUUUU!!!”  I am screaming at Sean and David, screaming at them to back out of this date.  I don’t want them to be right.  I want to hold out hope that I can find a boyfriend who wants to connect on more than sex.  I stand up, double check my hair and makeup, and head out the door.

Jamal is waiting on the stoop outside his front door.  He is wearing a suit!  Well, a partial suit.  He’s wearing blue dress pants and a matching blazer with a t-shirt underneath.  He looks super handsome.  I’m really glad I didn’t go for jeans now.  We smile at each other as I open the gate and walk up the path. 

“Well hello!” he says, looking me over and nodding his head.  “You look fantastic!”  He sounds a little surprised, but I realize he has only seen me in the equivalent of sweat pants.

“You look very nice yourself,” I say, feeling awkward.  I take a deep breath and try to stand up tall.  I notice that our blue clothes match.  Is that weird?  Is it a sign?  I glance up at Jamal’s face and he is smiling.

“Shall we?” he asks, motioning down the walkway.

We start off in the direction of the restaurants.  There’s really only one nearby cluster of places to eat—a sandwich shop, a pizzeria, a sushi restaurant, the ramen place I went to with David, and a dive bar that sells greasy burgers and nachos.  It’s been a while since I’ve been on a date with someone who’s not from a dating website.  On those dates, we would already know each other’s favorite foods and favorite restaurants.  

“I feel like I don’t know anything about you,” I say.

Jamal laughs.  “You don’t!  But I’m an open book!  You can ask me anything.”

“Really?  That’s awfully trusting of you.  I could be a spy.”

He laughs again.  I like how easily he laughs.  “Sure, you could be a spy.  But you’re not.”

“How do you know?  I could be a really good spy.”

“Or a really bad one, if you’re this committed to telling people you’re a spy.”

I tap my temple.  “Reverse psychology.  Now you definitely won’t think I’m a spy.”  I’m nervous, and I can feel myself wanting to hide behind silly banter as long as possible.  I smile at him and try to be quiet.

“So what do you do for fun?” he asks.  I’m relieved that he didn’t start by asking me what I do for work.  I hate trying to answer that question.  

“I….” Oh God.  This is where my depression shows up to bite me.  Fun?  That’s a stretch.  I skip my bipolar meds so I can shop manically for a day and try to hook up with ex-boyfriends.  “Well, I spend a lot of time with my niece, who you met.”

“Binky.”

“Yes, Binky.”  He wants me to know that he pays attention, and that is hot.  If only guys knew that women have an entirely different criteria for what’s sexy, we could save ourselves so much heartache.  “I like to hike and go for bike rides, hang out with friends.  And I write.”  Mostly honest.  Brenna is the only friend I see with any regularity.  Except for Liz, of course.

“Wow!  You’re a writer?  What kinds of things do you write?”

“Poetry, short stories.  I’m working on a series for young adults.”

I love that he picked writing to ask about, out of everything I just said.  And I love that he asked what I write, not what I’ve published. 

“Young adult?  What does that mean?  Like, teenagers?”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s cool!  I’d love to read your writing sometime, if you’d let me.”

“Sure!”  We haven’t talked about where we’re going to eat.  I’m just following Jamal’s lead.  He’s walking confidently and there’s something about him that makes me feel safe.  His smile is so warm, and I have an urge to shimmy up into his big arms.  I don’t follow the urge of course, thanks to my meds.  “So what kinds of things do you do for fun?” I ask.

This is a make or break moment.  With online dating, you know all this stuff ahead of time.  Or you know what the person has told you, at least.  They aren’t always honest, like when David wrote on his profile that he was a “staunch feminist”.  I wonder if some men think they are feminists but don’t actually understand what that means.  

I’m holding my breath a little.  What if Jamal says he plays video games all day?  Or is one of those people who dresses up like stuffed animals and goes to conventions with other stuffed animal people?  Furries, I think they’re called?  Actually, I think that’s a kink thing.  Probably not something you would say is a “hobby”.  I’ll find that stuff out later.  What if he has a weird kink?  I smile at Jamal.  Our hands are right next to one another’s.  I feel a tingle in the air between them.

“Let’s see,” he says.  “You already know that I play basketball.”

“Do you play it a lot?”

“I do.  A lot.  I play a lot of pick-up games, and have some buddies I play with.  I also like to watch basketball.”  

He grins at me.  I can tell this has been a sticking point in past relationships.  “That’s cool!” I say, honestly.  “You can teach me some more tricks.”

“Alright!”

“So is that all you do for fun?  Basketball?”

“No, I mean, I read.  I also like to ride my bike.”  He flashes me another grin.  He really seems to like me.  I catch myself wondering why.  Ugh.  Shut up, brain.

“Oh?  What do you read?”

“Young adult literature.”

“What?  Get out of here.”

He laughs.  “I do now!”

I give him a playful shove.  We are getting close to the sushi restaurant.  I consider making a joke that I’m allergic to seafood, but decide against it.  I don’t want to do anything to make him feel insecure.  This is going so well.  

Someone has left their recycling bins on the sidewalk.  Jamal steps aside so I can fit through.  My body brushes against his as I pass by.  I glance up and he raises his eyebrows at me, smiling.  My heart speeds up.

We reach the restaurant and pause outside.  “So, do you like sushi?” he asks, then laughs.  “I should have asked you a while ago.”

“I love it,” I say.  “I could tell where we were going.”  He opens the door for me and I step inside.

The next two hours are amazing.  We have no problem finding things to talk about.  He actually does read (some people say they do, but in reality haven’t opened a book in years), and even though it’s mostly science fiction, which I usually avoid, I love that he spends time reading.  He’s funny, and our chemistry is through the roof.   I relish each moment that our knees come close beneath the table.  Throughout the meal our hands move closer atop the table, bit by bit, until our fingers are close enough for him to tap mine when I make him laugh particularly hard over a joke about Portland culture.  

I learn that he grew up in Portland, and went to school in Philadelphia on a basketball scholarship.  He seems happy to find out that I grew up in New York, and has been to the city many times.  He’s been single for about a year, but has been trying to get out and date more.  He’s never done online dating and is weirded out that anyone would meet someone in person from the internet.  He has one sister, and a nephew, who live on the other side of town.  I want to ask about his grandmother, but haven’t found the right moment.  He wants to know about me, and I don’t feel shy telling him.  I feel like we’ve known each other for a while, like I’m sitting with an old friend.  I tell him that.

“I know what you mean!” he says.  “I feel so comfortable with you, so relaxed.”  His hand slides up over mine and he brushes my skin, then pulls away self-consciously.  “See?” He laughs.  

I’m blushing.  My whole body felt zapped with electricity with his hand over mine.  “So, why did you ask me out?” I say.

“What?!” He sets his drink down and grins at me, incredulously.  “You asked me out, remember?  The note?  That you broke into my house to leave?”

“Oh yeah.”  I feel myself turning red.  

“Why did you ask me out?” he says.  

“Um, because you’re gorgeous and have an incredible smile.  And I liked how you took the time to teach my niece a cool basketball trick.”

“OK!  Well, I’m very glad you asked me out.”

I smile.  I have had a growing question, throughout the meal, of why he would go out with me.  He seems…well, out of my league.  

As if reading my mind he says, “I think you’re gorgeous too, Mar.  And you have something about you, like a sincerity.  You seem like a very genuine person.  I could see that right away about you, and it’s not very common.”

“I know what you mean,” I say.  “I like that about you, too.”

“Do you want to walk up the street to get a drink?” he asks.  The bill arrives and he shooes my hand away when I reach for my wallet.

“I don’t drink,” I say.  Another make or break moment.  I don’t care if my date drinks, but I don’t want to date a frequent drinker.  I’ve discovered that many people don’t like dating non-drinkers.  “I’m fine if you drink, though.  And I actually really like bars.  It’s good people drinking.  I mean, people watching!”  

We laugh.  “That’s OK,” he says.  “I don’t drink very much, and I actually rarely drink on a weeknight.”  His hand is back on the table, resting next to mine.  He brushes his fingertips against mine.  “I’m not ready for this date to be over, though.”

I work hard to keep my smile from taking over my whole face.  “Me neither.”  

We are quiet.  The unspoken question is whether one of us should invite the other over.  He lives with his grandmother, so going there seems odd.  I doubt his grandmother wants his dates coming over the first night they go out.  Or maybe she does.  Maybe she wants to vet them.  Inviting him to my place is too risky.  I don’t want to sleep with him right away.  It ruins things, I know it does.  I’ve made that mistake more than once.  But it’s cold outside, and there isn’t any kind of a late night tea house or cafe in the neighborhood.  

“Want to just go for a walk?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says.  He nods his head decisively.  This is the best plan, he seems to be thinking.

We walk West, toward downtown.

“This is my jogging route,” Jamal says.  I haven’t been able to help but notice that he’s incredibly fit.  

Suddenly, I think of Ahmaud Arbery, the Black man who was shot while jogging three days ago.  I don’t know why he springs into my head, but I open my mouth to say something about him and then think better.  Why would I bring that up, I wonder?  And why wouldn’t I bring that up?  In Manhattan, I grew up around Black people.  I had lots of Black friends and boyfriends, but it’s different here.  We never talked about race growing up, except to joke around about it.  When I’d go over to my Black friends’ houses and neighborhoods, I’d get teased for being white.  When they came over to mine, they’d be teased for being Black.  That was it.  We all understood what was meant by it, what was behind the teasing.  The danger of race, of racism, always hanging in the air, never directly acknowledged but danced around, like a shadowboxer, taking little jabs to keep it on its feet but also in its corner.  

Here, in Portland, race is this weighty thing that is either completely ignored, like it doesn’t exist, or discussed in heavy conversations.  It’s a huge bag dragged around by the mostly white city, unopened, talked about in hushed tones, what should be done with it.  I think it’s because of this that I’ve largely stopped talking about race at all.  Something is missing for me because of that.  Something that would have been fun and easy on a date like this, it’s gone.  I no longer feel like I can acknowledge out loud that Jamal is Black and I’m white.  Bringing up Ahmaud Arbery would do that, would mention our difference.  I feel surprisingly sad about this.  

Without thinking, I reach over and slip my hand into Jamal’s.  He gently squeezes my fingers and smiles, looking down at his feet as we walk.  We walk a while in silence.  It’s a cold and clear night.  A train rattles by as we near the tracks, whistling loudly to warn the city of its arrival.  Jamal stops and pulls me to face him.  I know he’s going to kiss me.  He smiles and strokes my cheek with his curled hand, his thumb.  I smile back and give a little nod.

He kisses me softly, then harder.  His hands reach around my back and pull me toward him, wrapping me in his arms.  It feels so safe in here.  We kiss for a long several minutes, the train rushing by.  He smells like cologne, a shiny, spicy smell.  I pull away, feeling suddenly shy, and he chuckles.  He turns us around and we start walking back.  We exchange shy smiles as we walk, our fingers interlaced.

“Do you work tomorrow?” he asks.

I pause, trying to remember what day it is.  I don’t want to think about work, or schedules.  I want to float along like this, just anticipating another kiss.  “Is it Wednesday?” I ask.  He nods and gives me a teasing frown.  I laugh.  “Yes, I work tomorrow.”

“Writing?  Or, in the shop?”

I love that he just acknowledged writing as a job.  I normally have to fight for that designation.  “In the shop,” I say.  “You?”  

He nods.  I suddenly realize that I still don’t know what he does for a living.  How did we come this far in the date without this coming up?  I’m slightly proud of myself.  I mean, it’s important to me, what he does, but really there’s so much else that I care more about.  His personality, his values, how he spends his free time.  How people spend their free time says so much more about them.

“What is your job?” I ask.

Jamal laughs.  “I was waiting for this to come up.”  He pauses, walking a little slower.  “I’m a police officer.”

I stop walking.  I can’t help it.  “You’re what?  You’re joking.  You’re a cop?”

He’s laughing.  “I knew it would freak you out!  That’s why I didn’t tell you right away.”

“It doesn’t freak me out.  It just…surprises me.”

“In a good way or in a bad way?”

We’re walking again.  He’s not smiling anymore.  I squeeze his hand.  He squeezes back.  

“Neither,” I say.  But that’s not quite true.  “It’s not good or bad.  It’s just…I’ve never dated a cop before.  It’s not something I would seek out.”

“So it is bad.”

“No!” I protest.  I don’t know what to do.  Why is this an issue for me?  I think about my 10th grade boyfriend, pressed against the back of a police car.  He was the only one of us they went after, the only Black one, too.  We hated the police, growing up.  They prowled the city, a force to be avoided.  We hid when they passed by, or stopped our play, waiting and watching until they were gone.  They’d wave, sometimes they’d pull over to talk to us, see what we were doing.  They were supposed to make us feel safe.  And they did make my mom feel safe.  She liked having them in the neighborhood.  My stepdad, Ray, loves the police.  He’s friends with them, always happy to pander to and impress any cop he meets.  But they didn’t make us teenagers feel safe, especially us girls, and our Black and Brown friends.

“It’s just, you don’t seem like a cop,” I say, feeling dumb as I say it.  What is a cop supposed to seem like?  I realize that I’ve never actually known a cop.

“OK,” says Jamal.  He’s nodding his head encouragingly, like I’ve given him something he can work with.  “That’s fair.  To be honest, I don’t date typical women for an officer.”

“Oh, really?  What’s a ‘typical’ woman?”

“Just, I mean, I like more artsy girls.  Like you.  Quirky.”

I look into his face.  He’s being sincere.  Nothing has changed about him.  He’s a cop.  So what?  So what.  I don’t like cops, right?  Do I?  I haven’t thought about this in so long.  Portland.  New York.  They both have story after story of Black people being shot at and harassed by the police.  How could Jamal be a cop?  I’ve never understood Black police officers.  They don’t make sense to me.  Like Black Republicans.  

“Are you a Republican?” I ask.

“No!” Jamal shakes his head and laughs.  “Have you been here for this date?  Did we not do a solid Trump bashing over calamari?  I’m a police officer, Mar.  That’s all.  That doesn’t make me a bad person.  In fact, I’m a really good person.  And I can do a lot of good as an officer.  It’s why I became one.”

“I wish this had come up earlier.  I have so many questions!”

“Good!  It will give us lots to talk about on our second date.”  He stops and pulls me against his body.  “Give me a chance on this,” he says.  “I knew this was going to be a surprise to you, I could tell.  You clearly don’t like the police.  I can just picture you as a scrappy teenager in New York with all your friends, flipping off the ‘pigs’ as they drove by.”

I throw my head back and laugh.  I have done just that very thing many times.  “OK,” I say.

He leans down and we kiss for a long time.  A car drives by and flashes its headlights at us.  A head pokes out of the passenger window and yells “Woo-hoo!”  Jamal pulls away and we laugh.  

“See?” he says.  “We are already improving the city!”

Our walk back is slow.  We have our arms around each other.  I haven’t enjoyed a date this much in a really long time.  I can’t remember when.  Not even with Sean.  Sean always felt…immature.  Being with Sean was like being a teenager again, lots of body jokes and pranks.  Jamal feels like a grown up.  Like a real grown up.  I also feel spectacularly beautiful when his eyes shine down on me.  I’m radiating happiness by the time we reach my front door.

“So this is where you live,” he says, his eyes circling the door frame and the number on the door.  “Now I know.”

“Yes,” I say.  “Now you can include me in your patrol.  Keep me safe.” 

He laughs.  “Nah.  I don’t want to make you part of my work.  I want this to be separate.  Special.”  

We kiss again.  I really want to invite him in.  Our kissing grows heavier and he presses me up against the door.  My body is screaming to take him into my bed.  

“I’m not going to invite you in,” I say, between kisses.

“Me neither,” he says, and chuckles.  

He’s kissing my neck now.  This is taking a lot of self control, but I’m proud of myself.  Mar in the past wouldn’t have thought twice about sleeping with someone on the first date.  It feels good to know that this isn’t going further, for now.  It makes me enjoy the kissing even more.  

I’m really pleased that he doesn’t try and talk me into letting him in.  After what feels like a really long time, he pulls away.  

“I should go,” he whispers.  “I’d like to take you out again.”

I nod, trying to catch my breath.  We both laugh. 

“Oh!” he says.  “Lemme get your phone number.”

I smile and pull out my phone.  I think it’s cute that we don’t have each other’s numbers yet.  So old-fashioned.  We exchange numbers.  My hands are shaking a little. 

“Good-bye, Mar.  Thank you for a wonderful first date.”  He kisses my hand, then my mouth.  

“Bye,” I whisper, a little sadly.  I really don’t want him to go, but I also feel like my heart is about to kill itself if it doesn’t calm down soon.

He stays to make sure my door unlocks, and then I watch him walk down the walkway to the parking lot.  Later, as I’m getting into bed, I hear the solid thwack-thwack of a basketball out on the court.  I peek through my curtains and see Jamal out there, making one perfect shot after another.    

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