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Issue 05 — She Leaned In the Whole Time

Alex. 28. Los Angeles, 2014.

There's a version of me that believes in types. The woman with the specific look, the specific energy, the specific way of existing in the world that makes you understand immediately why you're attracted to her. I had a type. I knew my type. I could spot my type from across a room. Caitlin was not my type.

We met on a dating website — this was before apps, before the algorithm got really good at showing you what you wanted before you knew you wanted it. We matched. We messaged back and forth for about a week. The conversation was good enough that we scheduled a date for Wednesday. But then Tuesday happened.

I was at Cabo Cantina in Hollywood celebrating Taco Tuesday the way you celebrate it when you're twenty-eight and alive in LA in 2014 — with friends, with drinks, with the particular enthusiasm that only a weeknight in a good bar produces. We were texting back and forth, Caitlin and I, and she mentioned she was down the street at a venue. So she stopped by.

Our first date wasn't supposed to be Tuesday. It just was.

I already had quite a few drinks in me by the time she arrived. We were sitting at a booth with my friends and she slid in next to me and we started talking. At some point toward the end of the night — I'm not entirely sure when because the timeline got a little fuzzy — she just leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Then she stared at me. And I understood what she was asking without her having to ask it.

I went in. We made out at the booth, at the table, in front of my friends, and then I stopped it because I didn't want to be the person who makes out in public like that. Not on a first meeting. Not without knowing where this was going.

She came home with me that night. We had drunk sex. It was great. She went home in the morning.