woman’s uncut hair being a sign of her obedience and subjection to God and to her father or husband. Looking back, there isn’t anything about this guy that I can point to as having been especially appealing. I could tell that he was interested in me, but more to the point, there was a slim chance that he could be saved—a hope I hadn’t dared to have for any guy outside the church in all my years. More than anything, the feeling I had sitting in that chair was simple possibility, and it was electrifying—like nothing I’d ever felt before.
The Israelis couldn’t make it to church two days later because of work, but they did come to Sunday dinner at my house. When they walked in with homemade falafel, the sweet, spicy scent of barbecue already permeated the kitchen. After dinner, we sat around the living room all evening—the salesmen and my parents and siblings—talking about God and Judaism and Israel and the Bible. Hebrew was their first language, which made Google Translate a necessity and deep discussion well-nigh impossible. Neither side walked away convinced by the other’s beliefs, but it was a noteworthy conversation—less because of its substance and more because of its tone. It was contemplative rather than contentious, which wasn’t generally the norm when it came to Westboro members and theological debates.
A few weeks later, I was out for a solo bike ride around the campus of my alma mater, when suddenly the Israeli pulled up next to me in an old car and said I should come see him. I told him I couldn’t, but he pointed toward a nearby apartment building and said I’d only be there for just a minute. The tiny spark of excitement that shot through me was more than dwarfed by an overwhelming sense of foreboding and dread; I felt physically ill. I pedaled on for a moment, then turned around and headed toward his building. I tried to maintain some sense of propriety by resolving that I wouldn’t go into his apartment. This was already the appearance of evil, but I felt that going inside would be unforgivable, my chastity essentially assumed to be forfeit.
It was early evening, but the sun was still hot, the extreme humidity of our Kansas summer still stifling. I found him sitting in the shade of the apartment building when I pulled into the parking lot. It was late July by then, and I was halfway through a fourteen-mile ride; beads of sweat were forming and falling all over my skin, deeply tanned that far into the season. I got off my bike and sat down on the curb next to him. We talked for a minute. I showed him photos of the results of my own amateur attempts with the curling iron. He laughed and then stood up and said we should go inside where it was cool. I demurred, my heart pounding steadily in my ears. It felt like the world was moving in slow motion.
Just then, the other salesman darted outside and teasingly grabbed my little black backpack, absconding with it back into the apartment. It was a flirtatious move, but I protested angrily—my phone and wallet were in there, and I couldn’t leave without it. I followed them into the apartment, the corrosive acid in my stomach seeming to multiply with each step until I thought I would vomit. The blast of air conditioning that hit me when I walked in was welcome, immediately bringing goose bumps to my skin, but it was almost completely dark inside. The lights were off and the curtains drawn, so it took my eyes a minute to adjust from the brightness outside. His roommate had thrown my bag into his bedroom, so I followed him there. He sat on the bed. I pleaded with him to just give me the bag, but he insisted I sit down next to him, facing him. I sat. He said sweet things I wanted to believe—that I was beautiful, that he cared about me—and then tried to kiss me. I evaded awkwardly, tucking into myself and bringing my arms up as if to protect my face.
No. I could not cross this line.
He tried again, and again I evaded. I stood up. He gave me my bag. I let him hug me. We walked outside. He hugged me again. And then I was off.
I biked straight home feeling sick and shaky and tortured with guilt. I cried as I rode,