I had been using an online dating site long enough to know how to protect my identity. Before meeting anyone in person, I always asked for the man’s phone number and never gave him mine unless I was extremely interested after a successful date. I used only my first name. I never shared my home address or place of work. I was prepared. I was secure.

So when a gentleman on the dating site sent me a message saying he had read my profile and seen my photo—and hoped we might get to know one another—I was flattered and a little surprised. He mentioned that he noticed I was a teacher and said he was sure I had a lot I could teach him. I found the comment slightly suggestive, but also clever and witty.

I had been asked out plenty of times before, but this man seemed exceptional. He was beyond handsome—perfect, really. Picture a Greek god and you’ll have a fairly accurate idea of his appearance. He was impeccably groomed, and in his profile photo he wore a striking black shirt and black tie. I suppose you could say I was smitten.

We arranged to meet at Panera for coffee. He was a complete gentleman.

“Hello, Linda,” he said, his voice deeply masculine and romantic. “I recognized you instantly from your photo.”

“Hello, Harlan,” I replied. Yes—his name was Harlan, and I liked it immediately.

“May I get you a coffee drink or anything else?” he asked.

I requested a vanilla latte, and he suggested I wait for him at a nearby café table. As I sat down, I used my compact mirror to make sure I looked my absolute best. This man was amazing. There was an aura around him—people smiled at him, nodded as he passed. Magnetic, I thought to myself.

Still, I reminded myself, I was his date. I was the focus of this meeting. I couldn’t wait to learn why he had invited me and what he wanted to know about me.

He returned, sat close, and handed me my drink.
“Careful,” he said. “There’s a warning label on the cup.”

“A warning label?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, pointing to the tiny print explaining that the contents might be hot.

I was even more impressed. How attentive. How thoughtful.

After a few quiet moments of gazing into his mesmerizing eyes, I asked him what he wanted to know about me.

“I am ready to scan any information you would like to provide,” he said. “It will be useful for my knowledge base.”

His voice was silky—like a late-night radio host on Pillow Talk. I realized he could say absolutely anything and it would sound like the most fascinating conversation of my life.

I giggled and began. “Well, I live in a nice home not far from here. I have two cats.”

I was about to continue when he reached across the table and took my hand.

“Tell me about cats,” he said.

“Oh—my cats?” I asked, making a mental note that this man must be a serious cat lover.

He nodded affirmatively, so I told him about them: one black, one orange. “Halloween colors,” I said.

“Do you have pets?” I asked.

Still holding my hand, he said that physical contact helped him learn more about me. I felt flattered again. His hand was warm and steady, his gaze intense.

“Affirmative,” he said.

I blinked. “What?”

“Affirmative. I do have pets,” he clarified.

“Cats?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said carefully, “they are… a sort of cat.”

“What color are your cats?” I asked.

He hesitated, visibly thrown off. “I don’t know how to answer that question.”

“I just wondered what color they are,” I persisted.

“I must explain,” he said. “I do not perceive color the same way you do.”

“Oh,” I smiled. “You’re colorblind.”

I decided that even the perfect man could have one small imperfection.

The rest of the conversation was odd—strange pauses, unusual phrasing—but I didn’t care. I was in love with Harlan. Oddness seemed trivial. Perhaps he was just nervous, I told myself.

After about an hour, we agreed to end the date with hopes of meeting again soon.

Outside the café, he asked if he could kiss me. I was surprised—this wasn’t something I usually did on a first date, especially not at the entrance of a Panera—but I couldn’t wait for him to kiss me.

He leaned in and whispered, “Now you will understand me.”

Oh, I wanted to understand him. I wanted to elope that very day.

We kissed.

My feet felt as if they lifted off the pavement. Swirls of color surrounded me. Warmth spread through my entire being. I felt safe, adored, and deeply desired.

When I blinked, I saw him clearly: Harlan was a creature who slightly resembled a tabby cat—large, gentle, loyal. And somehow, this made perfect sense.

He broke the kiss and looked sad. Holding both my hands, he gazed into my eyes. I understood then that we would not have another date. He would not be on planet Earth much longer.

I read his thoughts easily. He was grateful. He loved me. He had learned from me. He promised to wish me only the best. And though he had to leave, he wanted me to know that my information about cats had been very useful.

When I blinked again, he was gone.

I have never had a kiss like that since.

Now, I only bother to look at dating profiles of exceptionally gorgeous men dressed entirely in black—especially those who are eager to learn.