I nod. "That's great," I say as I stab a leaf of kale and fork it into my mouth. It tastes nothing like the bacon cheeseburger that I wish I were having right now. A greasy bacon cheeseburger at home, on the sofa, in front of "The Sopranos."

I'm 30 minutes into my first date with Raoul and I am surprised by the intensity of my hatred for him. Truly, it is stunning.

"I don't watch TV," Raoul says, when I ask him if he likes "The Sopranos."

"Never?" I ask.

"Rarely. Sometimes a little PBS or CNN. I used to watch a couple of shows, but not anymore. Not since I stopped drinking."

I try and veil my glee by adopting a mask of compassion. "So you had ... a drinking problem?" I want to pound the table and cheer. I want neon signs to appear, huge arrows that point at him, flashing, FLAW, FLAW, FLAW. I like flaws and feel more comfortable around people who have them. I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.

"No, I didn't have a drinking problem. But you know," he says, and shakes his head, "who needs the extra carbs?" Raoul's teeth are so white they look plastic. But I am certain they are real and that he has never had a cavity, because no doubt he flosses four times a day.

And this is where I notice that all the breadsticks are gone. A trail of crumbs leads from the basket to my side of the table. When Raoul takes a sip of mineral water, closing his eyes, I quickly brush the crumbs off my shirt.

"CNN had a thing about carbs the other night," he says. "You see it?"

I never watch CNN. I hate news and information and anything that threatens to puncture the bubble of oblivion in which I live.

"No," I say. "I missed that. But I agree, carbs are just awful. I usually don't eat them. Except, you know, when I eat out in restaurants."

Raoul smiles. "I thought you said you always eat out in restaurants, that you never cook?"

"Well," I attempt, "I meant restaurants with tablecloths."

I have been on a spree of answering personal ads lately and Raoul is the 10th date I've had this month. I believe in the concept of personal ads because you get to meet the interior of a person first. As opposed to meeting somebody while standing in line at a movie, falling for them because their looks make you swoon and only discovering much later, after hundreds of dating dollars, that you find their insides as appealing as Alpo. At least theoretically. In practice though, I'm not sure there's much of a difference. After all, I answered Raoul's personal ad entirely on the basis of his picture, which was incredible. I only skimmed the content of the ad, skipping over words I didn't like ("spiritual," "motivated," and especially "experiential"). Instead I downloaded his photo, enlarged it in Photoshop to scrutinize it and then replied with a brief, witty note and a picture of me standing in a field, shirtless.

"The soup is really good," I say.

"It's a little salty," he answers.

I immediately agree. "It's good in a salty way. My body must crave salt for some reason. Maybe I didn't drink enough at the gym and I'm dehydrated." Why am I doing this? Why am I shape-shifting in front of this man? And the answer is, of course, because he is handsome and perfect and I feel I am neither.

Raoul takes a large sip of water. "So tell me about you," he says, smiling.

"Well, I'm in advertising. Like Darren Stevens on Bewitched." I have used this line hundreds of times and sometimes people smile.

He doesn't smile.

I nod and go on. "So that's what I do for work. For fun, I really like going to movies. I see pretty much everything."

Aces align in his eyes. "I love movies," he says. Finally. Something in common.

"Yeah? What's your favorite?"

"American Beauty," he says, not having to think. "I saw it 10 times. It's the most incredible movie about Buddhism I've ever seen."

I can't stand spiritual gay men. They annoy me more than flavored coffees. A spiritual gay man simply means he has a yin-yang tattoo on his ass, which you can be sure is all muscle. "So you're a Buddhist?" I ask.

"Put it this way," he says, "I'm very interested to know as much as I can and experience as much of the moment as possible." The candle between us flickers when I cough. "What about you? What movie did you really like recently?"

Suddenly my mind goes white and I cannot remember seeing any movie, ever. This happens to me. Somebody asks me a simple question and my petulant child of a mind turns away and faces the wall. "I liked 'Deliverance.' The pig scene was great."

After dinner Raoul shocks me by asking me out again. "We could take a walk in the woods up in Inwood. It's really beautiful, more untouched than Central Park. And it would be really nice to be together in nature."

Because I am so surprised by his invitation, as I'd assumed that Raoul didn't like me either, I say, "Ok." Even though I am not at all fond of nature. After all, where do most manhunts for escaped serial killers begin? Exactly, in the woods. After I agree, I ask myself why. And all I can think is I am doing what my friend John once told me, to dismiss the first date, write it off. You have to give somebody two or three dates before you can really know.

I tell myself how good this is that I am making an effort, giving Raoul a fair shot, not being so judgmental.