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\u2019s 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\u2019t snowed since last Saturday, the temperature has stayed above 32, don\u2019t 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\u2019re convinced. As you walk under the leafless, shivery trees, he alternates between saying things that remind you of your ex (you\u2019re not listening to the right death metal if you don\u2019t think it\u2019s 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\u2019ve 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\u2019t 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\u2019ll 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.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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