He has black hair and a starburst of dyed-red roots. He plays the guitar, the bass, the drums. Aside from weed and nicotine and whippets, he is totally, completely sober. On Hinge, he liked a photo of you that all your friends said not to include, where your face is pimply and your boobs look small, and you are staring not at the camera but at the person holding the camera, the aperture of your pupils ginormous. It’s the reason you agree to the date: you like that he likes this photo. In Central Park, you debate with him over whether a patch of snow is real or fake. It hasn’t snowed since last Saturday, the temperature has stayed above 32, don’t you think the location is a little convenient, right next to the ice skating rink? you say. He places snow crumbs in the palm of your mitten that look like angel food cake. Okay, you’re convinced. As you walk under the leafless, shivery trees, he alternates between saying things that remind you of your ex (you’re not listening to the right death metal if you don’t think it’s good) and things that shock you with their directness (wanna head to my dorm to fuck?). On the way there, he buys a pastrami sandwich, offering you the limp crusts. His mouth tastes like mustard and rye. His bed is a twin XL, his condom size, a cocky magnum XL. You’ve slept with other people during the intermissions of your last relationship (a pilot-in-training who sweated so profusely it felt like having sex with a seal, another musician, a girl with brandy-colored hair), but he handles you more gently, sweeping his hands over your body as if he is smoothing sheets. You apologize for your cellulite, how you haven’t shaved, that your nipples look like squid eyes. He calls you so, so pretty. When you look out the window, it is snowing, the panes frosted and opaque, so cold they burn. He kicks the heater up and smiles at you. You doubt you’ll ever return to his bedroom, wanting to remember him like this, perspiry and red, gazing right into you. In your head, you click a shutter.