My Date Thanked Me For Not Murdering Her

Photo by Alison Courtney on Unsplash

No, this story isn’t about me being a murderer.

No, this is about something a little more esoteric and palpable.

It’s about the fear a woman feels in her everyday life. It’s about a 50-year-old woman and how she expressed to me several times how she was trusting me not to do her harm.

I didn’t do anything to threaten her. I didn’t make inappropriate innuendos. I didn’t use a threatening tone of voice. I didn’t dress in an intimidating manner. My behavior was above reproach.

I was just a man she didn’t know very well, having a nice dinner with her on our first date, asking her if she wanted to walk along the sea wall near the ocean.

I’m a man of imposing stature who carries himself with confidence. I am a man who is six feet, four inches tall, and in fairly good shape for 60 years old. Hell, even for 50 years old.

She’s an attractive woman who just turned 50 years old. She stands five feet, six inches in heels.

We had been chatting for over three weeks, including the two weeks I was in Florida on vacation. When I got back, I called her and we had a few very nice conversations.

We finally met in person this past weekend when she agreed to meet me at a small city near a beach, located equidistant from our respective residences.

She got to the restaurant first, and managed to grab the last table in the bar. She texted me that information, so when I entered the bar, I looked around for her.

My eyes passed over her because she looked a little different from her pictures. Not enough to believe she lied, but enough that I wasn’t sure it was her.

When my eyes initially lighted on her, she didn’t acknowledge me, and I didn’t recognize her. But I noticed she was appraising me. I kept looking around waiting for my date to signal me. After several more passes, I looked down at my phone and texted her that I was there and to raise her hand.

As soon as I sent the text, I looked back up and noticed her waving to me. My text hadn’t had enough time to reach her. I figured I passed her first test. . .the dreaded "visual inspection!"

I approached her, and she got up and gave me a big smile and a hug. I could tell right away she wasn’t disappointed. I wasn’t, either.

We were both in the same profession, and we started talking immediately. The evening flew by with some wine, dinner, some light-hearted political and historical debate, and plenty of laughs.

After several hours, I paid the bill and suggested we walk a few blocks to the beach and stroll along the sea wall. She didn’t hesitate when she said yes.

As we walked along towards the sea wall, I casually placed my hand on her back and moved her to my right side, away from the curb line. As we approached other people, I would maneuver her so when we passed them, they were always on the side opposite from her. It was a safety thing, keeping the woman away from potential danger.

I was out of practice escorting a woman that way, and as I did it, it occurred to me what a ridiculous thing it was that it had to be done. Far too many idiots and drunks out there who would think nothing of reaching out from a moving car, yelling things, or men walking past her taking the opportunity to “accidentally” bump into her.

As we got closer to the beach, she casually mentioned how she was taking a chance that I wouldn’t kill her, then laughed it off. Normally, I would joke about something like that, but my head was firmly out of my arse and I realized it was not the right time.

I tried to reassure her, and asked her if she wanted to turn back. She said “no” with a nervous laugh, so we continued.

As we approached the ramp to take us down to the path, she hesitated briefly and again expressed her nervousness by stating, “Well, if you murder me, I guess I’ll be found in the morning.” She laughed again, and, with my head now fully up into my arse, I made a little joke about how she needn’t worry about that. None of my victims had been found, yet. However, I quickly followed that with a, “Are you sure you want to keep going?” Another laugh, and an enthusiastic, “Sure!”

As we started down the ramp, I gently took her hand and placed it around my arm to help her keep her balance. I asked if she was alright with that, and she said, “yes.”

As we hit the beginning of the boardwalk, a small group of street people were gathered having a lively discussion over loud music playing from someone’s phone.

I again maneuvered her into the least dangerous position as we cut through the group, me making eye contact as I loudly and confidently said, “excuse us” and “thank you.”

We walked about 100 yards, and she asked if we could stop and sit on the sea wall.

The moon was bright and was reflecting off of the surf, making it almost as bright as sunset.

We sat and talked a little. I apologized to her in case I was making her nervous. Then she said something to me that I found quite disconcerting.

She said, “Um, I don't think nervous is the right word. When I was younger, I was constantly afraid of men. They were always hitting on me, yelling things to me, crude things. I’m glad I’m 50, now. Now men don’t really see me as much. It’s as if I am almost invisible to them. I like that much more than being young and having them scare me all the time.”

Not knowing what else to say, I quietly told her that, not being subjected to that, I understood as only a man with sisters and a mother could, but disliked that men made women feel that way.

The conversation continued, more light-hearted than before, until we finally returned to the city streets. My car was closer than hers, so I gave her a ride to her car.

At her car, we spoke briefly and agreed we wanted to see each other again. I asked her to please text me when she got home. Then she did the unexpected, but pleasurable. She leaned in without hesitation, and gave me a quick kiss on the lips. As we parted, we looked into each other’s eyes and smiled at each other. Then she said “goodnight” and got out of her car.

I pulled ahead a little, made sure she safely got into her car and watched her as she drove away. I followed her until she got onto the freeway, made sure no one was following her, then went in the opposite direction to go home.

As I drove home, I reflected on her words. What a terrible reflection on our society that women have to feel that way, and that men still give them reason to.

About 45 minutes later, I got home. I got ready for bed and waited for her text. About 10 minutes later, she texted.

“I had a very good time! Thank you for not murdering me. 😂”

Well, she seemed to be relaxed enough to joke about it. I pondered my response, and whether it was too early to make a Chuck Roast (my pen name) joke about something that was sensitive. Me being me, I decided it was okay. She seemed ready for it.

I texted her back, “You’re welcome. I only murder on the second Tuesday of the fifth week of the thirteenth month. ☠”

I’m still waiting to hear back from her.