Good Genes

I arrived early for my date on Friday night. I'd braved the wet weather and made the trek across town through the Mission, past Delores Park, all the way to Noe Valley. On my way over I got a text from the guy I was meeting: "Can we do six thirty?" Our date was for six. Fine. Whatever.

Not wanting to sit for the next 40 minutes alone in a tea house, I wandered around in the rain. In the process I decided I should date more men from Noe Valley because they'd surely be well off financially, judging from the look of the neighborhood. I made a mental note of this before continuing to Salmavor on 18th and Sanchez.

A date that begins at a tea house, isn't exactly my cup of, well, you know. Especially when a cup of the stuff costs more than nine bucks, and the menu offers other "amazing elixirs" for $65. Why would I want a cup of tea that costs more than a good bottle of wine?

When he finally arrived, N talked incessantly and leaped from one topic to another, from his hobby of restoring antique Italian motorbikes, to his Israeli roots, to my resemblance of a crazy woman in a 1970s Clint Eastwood film. He also used the search function on his iPhone to illustrate several of his points. I felt exhausted.

My tea tasted bitter and potent. My feelings about the date were similar. His tea tasted like hot mint water, but smelled delicious.

Not distracted by his tea, N began rambling again. This time about genetic compatibility and his desire to find a partner with "good genes," who would live forever with him. "After all," he said, "I don't want to be alone when I'm 80." "I don't want to be alone when I'm 80 either," I said, but at the moment I wished I was still alone, at home.

I wanted to tell him then that he had the wrong woman, that I, in fact, have bad genes and a hereditary condition, but I didn't. Instead I listened to him explain his commitment to raw foods and how sugar was the devil, though he believed in neither heaven nor hell. Eventually, I stopped listening and started praying for a way out.