My date that evening was with a high school science teacher. His pictures made him look athletic, in a rugged, nature-loving sort of way. I knew that these profiles rarely matched reality, but I was still disappointed to discover that he was nothing like his photographs. He was unfit and unkempt, with a slouch of self-pity weighing him down. It took him a long time to order: he went back and forth among three options, and when his dish finally arrived, he said he was upset that he’d made the wrong choice. I found them all so childish, these grown men who couldn’t see beyond themselves, who were incapable of seduction. This one told me at length about his divorce, the two boys he had on alternate weeks. Then, out of the blue, he reached over to pick something off my shoulder before elaborating on the logistics of his children’s visits.

The casual flirtation of the touch was at odds with the man’s awkwardness. It puzzled and intrigued me. I thought I must have misread him, that he was not so straightforward as he seemed, and perhaps this was why I agreed to extend our date, walking with him to the metro once we’d paid. But there were no other signs of mystery. Soon after we parted ways, the man texted to ask if I would like to meet up again the following day. I told him I wouldn’t.

I thought we had a great time? he wrote.