Over margaritas, he'll tell you that he became a profiler of serial killers because two of his former girlfriends went to jail for serial murder. One killed six ice cream truck drivers over the course of nineteen years, and the other would lure junkies into a secret studio apartment she had rented solely for the purpose of having a place to bring back junkies and dismember them while on the nod.
"It's funny," he'll say. "Since she was my second serial killer, I must have had an instinct for it. When I discovered all of those checks paid towards rent of this other apartment, I didn't even think that she might be cheating on me. I just thought, that's where the bodies are."
Say to him, "So you became a profiler so as to determine sooner whether someone you find attractive might be a serial killer?"
"It gave me some tools that I need," he'll say. "But ultimately, it's become clear that the best way I can tell whether someone is a serial killer is whether or not I find them attractive."
You'll remember how much you used to love pounding in the skulls of neighborhood cats when you were a child and you'll ask, "Do you find me attractive?"
He'll grab hold of some silverware and raise it in a defensive posture. "Very attractive," he'll say.
Place your hand over his and lower it down to the table. He'll let go of the utensils and he'll wrap his fingers up in yours.
Say, "Guess that means I'm dangerous."
The heat between you will be palpable. "An earthly evil," he'll say. If the table weren't there you'd be on top of him already.
"Come home with me," say to him.
He'll tell you yes. There's a man in your life now. Perhaps bringing him to your bed will quiet the shrieking chorus of voices in your skull that has been growing louder lately. Always, talking about "the infected ones" and "lance the boils." Blah blah blah.
Happy Date A Profiler Day!