A Good, Literate Woman by Megan Sandberg

When I saw Rob on a dating app, I thought he looked like Matt Damon: large forehead, compressed facial features, deep smile lines. According to his profile, he was five years older than me at 26, worked at a sales company, and often wore T-shirts and glasses. He looked as promising as the other men I had virtually agreed to, which meant he was employed, appeared to shower, and didn’t write in his bio, sup or good vibes only. We exchanged a few get-to-know-you messages, and after deciding his incorrect use of “your” instead of “you’re” must’ve been a one-time typo, I agreed to meet him at a cidery in Fremont, a popular, youthful neighborhood in Seattle.

On the night of our date, I curled my hair, applied makeup more slowly than usual, and dressed in a red turtleneck sweater, ripped jeans, and black, ankle-high boots. Five minutes before we were supposed to meet, he texted me: So I didn’t time this well and just got done at the gym. will be there in 30 haha.

I sighed. Did I stoop to criticism before the date even started? Or did I embody a favorite adjective amongst app users: “chill”? I texted back: No worries. I have a book to read.

He wrote back: haha.

I had already brought a book for the bus ride, a Seattle-based memoir about fatherhood called Kickflip Boys, but after I got off, I found a nearby used bookstore to explore while I waited for Rob’s cardiovascular recovery. Downstairs, I sat on the floor in the social sciences section, trying to avoid the gaze of a cat that seemed suspicious of me, and scanned the selection until I landed on a $5 copy of Susie Orbach’s Fat is a Feminist Issue.

After twenty minutes of reading and testing the limits of my feline allergy, he texted that he was outside the cidery. I packed up my belongings, bought the book, and then walked down the block. I saw him standing outside the entrance in a white long-sleeve shirt, a leather jacket, jeans, and large, old-fashioned glasses. He looked up from his phone as I came closer, and through his “Hey!”, I gathered he might be socially capable, friendly, and fun. We slipped into a natural hug, a gesture that seemed to be the protocol, though one I’d probably oppose if it wasn’t the only time I received a hug.

We went inside the noisy bar and stood in line, making small talk for a few minutes.

“Did you take an Uber too?” he asked.

“No, I took the bus.”

“I forgot, I actually have this thing.” He rifled through his wallet and handed me a piece of paper. “It counts as a free ticket. I don’t ever use the bus, so here.”

“Oh, cool. Thank you.” I suddenly wished all my previous dates had given me a free exit.

After he turned down my offer to pay for half, we got our cider flights and took a seat at the bar on side-by-side wooden stools. I set down my bus coupon, purse, and books, then, like the hypocritical feminist I am, I turned the spine so he couldn’t see the title of my latest purchase.

He pointed at the stack. “Wow. You seem really literate.” 

I swallowed a sip of blackberry cider. “Do you mean literary?” 

“Oh. Yeah.”

I talked about how I was enjoying Kickflip Boys, a story of one dad’s plight with free-reign parenting.

“Wow,” he said in response to my complete sentences. “You seem really intelligent.”

“Um. Thank you.”

I tried to turn the conversation to him and asked about his family: whether he had siblings and if he was close to his parents. My avoidance of small talk sometimes resulted in my dates morphing into therapy sessions, but I wasn’t trying to pinpoint any Freudian downfalls; I thought interpersonal dynamics were more interesting than food or music tastes, which only told me how annoying someone would be on road trips I didn’t want to take.

Once he started talking about the baseball players he coached and the way he often protected his younger brother, I started to think fun, friendly, and questionably literate Rob may actually be good for me. This thought did occur in tandem with the completion of a cider flight and the beginning of a 12-ounce cider.

I let out a small giggle. “I’m really feeling this.” 

I disliked being tipsy on dates, not because I feared losing total control, but because alcohol made men more tolerable. And men being tolerable usually pushed back my bedtime.

He took this comment as an invitation to lean closer. I suddenly became hyperaware of the ripped jeans I was wearing, which revealed patches of pale skin on my thighs and knees. I leaned back. If I hadn’t, Rob may have taken the opportunity to plant both hands on my calves and eat my hair.

“I’m feeling it too,” he said. “But mostly because I took two shots before I came here.”

“Do you normally do that before dates?”

“You never know what you’re going to get.”

Yeah. Like a 26-year-old with time management issues.

“I feel like you’re the opposite of me,” he said after another sip.

“Yeah? Why?” 

“I feel like you…” He smiled, treading. “Didn’t, you know, party a lot in college.”

I laughed. “That would be correct.”

“I can tell you’re a goodie.” He smiled as if I had challenged him to a dare. I had seen this look before—the vampire of corruption eager to turn me, entertained by the challenge of persuading a goodie to jaywalk or kill someone.

“I mean, I’m a good person,” he clarified. “But I’ve been bad.”

“As in…doing things that are illegal?”

“Yes.”

“Like…in what ways? Substance abuse? Violence?”

“Both. I mean, I’m a good person. But I’m not a pussy in a fight.”

Oh good. Now we can get married.

As I sank into drunkenness, I thought about what it would be like to go home with this substance-abusing non-pussy. I didn’t actually want to have sex with him; I was more curious about which ignorant things he would’ve said in bed. I imagined him having a vocal, mindlessly great time while I stared at the ceiling and contemplated what series of events had to happen before someone turned to self-destructive behavior.

I looked outside at the darkening Seattle streets. “Do you mind walking me to the bus stop?”

I thought I could trust him more than an unexpected lunatic on the street, especially since he was, as he claimed, a “good person.” I also took another glance at his short stature, and though he was muscular, I thought I could potentially take him.

“Ummm.” He looked outside, then glanced at his phone.

“It’s just really dark, and the bus is in kind of a sketchy part,” I said. “When I got off earlier, there were some weird shirtless men staring at me.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said.

“Thanks.” I grabbed my books and tucked them under my arm.

When we walked outside, he shrugged his leather jacket up to his shoulders and put his hands in his pockets.

I pulled up Google Maps on my phone and walked up a hill before realizing the map was pointing in the other direction. “Oh, wait.” I laughed. “I think we’re going the wrong way.”

“Oh my god. You don’t even know where you’re going.” A joking timbre only slightly veiled his irritation.

I showed him the map, and he leaned in, his shoulder pressing on mine.

I shook my head. “I think it’s this way.” 

“Your phone is retarded,” he said.

My stomach cinched. His high school must’ve never launched an effective campaign to get kids to stop using the R-word. I opened my mouth briefly, then decided not to start an argument about derogatory language in the middle of Fremont.

We soon got to a bus stop. “I don’t think this is the right one.” I pointed at the sign. “This is the one I got off on. I need one that says Shoreline and Greenwood. This one says Downtown.”

“But this is where you got off?”

“Yes.”

“It will loop around eventually.”

I looked back down at the map. “Well…I think the right one is just across the street.”

I turned and stopped at the sight of the red dotted hand, even though there were no cars. He started inching closer, so I looked down at my phone again. Then he snaked his hand around my back. I looked up as he pulled me into him and kissed me.

The crosswalk sign flashed white, and I pulled away, smiling how I thought one should smile after experiencing a kiss that, to their surprise, didn’t repulse them.

Once we crossed the street and stood under the bus stop’s glass covering, I started rambling—a tactic to avoid physical intimacy—which he interrupted with another kiss, grabbing me again. I kissed him back, pressing my hands into his arms. Soon, he was feeling up my ripped jeans, his hands moving from my ass to my stomach, then barely brushing my breasts. Then his hands settled back on my butt, and I could feel him through his jeans. Rob had somehow become my newest feminist issue.

We were still entangled when the bus pulled up. He smiled like he was both amused and proud.

“Well. Goodnight,” I said.

“Goodnight.”

I turned around and hopped on the bus as he walked away, then felt in my back pocket for the free ticket. It wasn’t there. The doors closed. I searched the other back pocket.

The bus driver sensed my panic. “You can give it to me later.”

“Thank you.” I sat down in the nearest seat, then pressed my head against the window, tucking my knees to my chest. Why was I smiling? I was confused by him, but more bewildered by myself.

At my stop, I got up and inserted the $2.50 in bus fare I had found in my front pocket.

“Oh, you are such a sweetheart,” the bus driver said.

I paused, suddenly wanting to ask him for a hug. “Thank you.”

The bus pulled away, and I stumbled home. I never heard from Rob, and he never heard from me.