They were on a date.
They had met online through a dating website, the only way to meet in 2008.
He was 27-and-a-half, already balding and pot-bellying, a software engineer a decade too late to take advantage of the turn-of-the-century dot.com boom. He spent most of his spare time attempting to create an app for Apple because that was the only way to make it big now. When he hit a wall, he updated his Facebook status with purloined Buddhist quotes.
She was 31, self-consciously aerobicizing to keep her figure svelte and youthful. Every evening after her jam-packed day as a second-grade school teacher at an alternative school, she hit the gym and then went to meet with the musical theater amateur group she had co-founded where she wrote-produced-directed radical shows. When she got home late at night, she’d spend a good twenty minutes or so returning all the clothes her mom had ordered for her from LL Bean.
On their first date, she had invited him to one of her musical theater shows. Its incendiary title: “What If Hillary Had Been the One to Cheat?” Since the group was 100% female, or rather womyn (so-called biological and transgendered), they liked to focus on feminist, heteronormative and homophilic issues.