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I heard the woman calling Michael's name before he did. The woman, thirtyish and friendly-looking, was under-dressed for the cold October day and kept moving in place to keep herself warm. A member of the opposite sex was nerve-racking enough, and I figured that I was adding to his stress—that Michael feared I'd inadvertently reveal why I came to Boston to meet him. " When she knew for sure it was him, she got louder, trying to make herself heard above the crowd exiting the subway station: ""Michael tensed up, as if preparing for the possibility that he'd have to flee. Michael's eyes darted back and forth, from the woman, to the dog, to me.
She'd seen him with his dog at a party a few weeks back.
"Tell me the truth," she said, leaning in conspiratorially.
"How many women have you slept with because of this dog? He's trim, around 5'10", with a pale, angular face and light-brown hair that is thinning but definitely still there.
Almost everyone I told about this article asked me, almost instantly, whether he was ugly—as in ugly to an extent that it would explain his sexlessness.
The question made me sad, and resistant to describing Michael at all, as if to do so were to put my stamp of approval on our whole hierarchy of beauty.