The time has come to admit that I did have a good date once- in fact, the best first date I've ever had.  We met at a community event four months ago and hit it off right away.  He was a student, attractive, intelligent, fluent in two languages, socially conscious, and best of all, he made me laugh.  I'd finally found the chemistry I'd spent hundreds of hours on the internet searching for.

He asked me to go swing dancing with him, and I accepted.  I showed up at the lessons an hour before the band started so I wouldn't spend the entire night stepping on his feet.  We danced together about fifteen minutes- or rather he danced and I stumbled- when he suggested that we go somewhere quiet to talk more.

We had ice cream and then drinks, and before I knew it I'd spent four hours on a Sunday night having an amazing time with a man who would become my boyfriend.  We kissed goodnight and I had goosebumps.  It was exactly the kind of first date this Seattle girl needed.

I have been in love three times in my life.  Three men lifted up my soul with the kind of gentle, tender love that fills you with greatness and makes you want to be a better person.  There are three men who, when we looked into each others’ eyes and melted together, I knew completely, and they knew me completely too.

I do not understand how the line is drawn between love and not love, but I know quickly, every time, that I am headed for the deep.  It's like gravitational pull or the seasons changing; there is no other alternative.  And with this man, my best first date ever, I came to realize that my feelings were not careening down like the tumbling boulder love is.

He was a good boyfriend, so I wanted to give it time.  I talked with him about the things that bothered me in our relationship, and he tried to change them.  I reminded myself that he was honest, ethical, and treated me well.  He brought me flowers for no reason, made me organic chicken soup when I was sick, took the bus for three hours to spend the night with me when I crashed my car in a snowstorm.  I tried and tried and tried, but I couldn’t create something that wasn’t there.

We had just finished having sex one morning when he told me he loved me.  He realized his vulnerability as soon as the words escaped and tried to recover, "I mean, I love your pussy."  Silence.  I understood what he meant, and I didn't know what to say.

I knew it had to end, and if I have learned one thing in my fifteen years of dating, it is the importance of a timely and respectful breakup.  So one day after work, I went over to his home to talk.

I was honest, explained that I didn’t think my feelings were matching his, that I did not want to waste his or my time.  “I don’t want to patronize you,” I said, “but I really do have a lot of respect for you.  You were a good boyfriend, and you treated me well.  I’m so sorry.”

He had been sitting calmly, almost in disbelief, when he exploded.  “Well you fucking should be!  We had something special and you fucked it all up!”  Then he stood up, grabbed me by both shoulders, and shook me violently.  Already in tears, my mind jumped to an image of me in the hospital with bruises or a broken face, and I cried harder.  “Please, don’t hit me!”

He stopped immediately, seeming as shocked by his reaction as I was, and said four words: You need to leave.

I didn’t have to be told twice.

I was closing the door when he called out to me and told me to wait.  I stopped, and he said exactly what I was hoping against.  “I really did love you.”  I didn’t respond, just cried and left his house.

Two weeks later, at a late hour that is only good for drunken texting, I received the following message from him:  Be embarrassed for yourself. 

I wasn’t.