She was a cat lover with cotton-candy-colored hair and obnoxious tastes in music but similar politics to mine. While texting on Tinder, she suggested I might get to play with her kitty. We agreed that we would take her cat out to the park some time but that we would start with dinner and a drink. There were no other hints to me that anything thrilling might happen beyond my riding my motorcycle from Denver to Boulder for the meeting.
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It was clear from our very first date that my boyfriend Omri probably has post-traumatic stress disorder. We were at a jazz club in Jerusalem. I'm not sure what the sound was — a car backfiring, a cat knocking over trash can, a wedding party firing celebratory shots into the air. But whatever it was, the sound caused Omri to jump in his seat and tremble.
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