If only I could say the same, I thought as I tried my best to act normal. Although we had never FaceTimed or Skyped or talked on webcam before, he had texted me almost a dozen photographs of himself over the course of two weeks. Based on that exchange, I had felt fully prepared to meet him face-to-face. However, now that I was actually sitting across from Mahmoud, I could not wrap my mind around how different he looked. I was expecting him to look identical to the images that had been imprinted in my mind over the past twelve days, but instead, I found myself looking at the vintage version of those photographs. I couldn’t help but feel caught off guard.

“Are you nervous?” Mahmoud asked as he grabbed a menu from the center of the table.

No, I’m freaked out by the complete stranger sitting in front of me! I thought as I slowly shook my head. So what if he looks different? I tried to reason with myself. Apart from his appearance, the two of you still made a connection over this two-week period! I tried to focus on all the things we had in common. We both like to read. We both have a good balance of culture and religion. We both despise tofu in our salads. And how could I forget all the sweet and thoughtful text messages? I tried to remind myself that we were Leila and Mahmoud, but something about the way he tapped his upper lip and grunted as he read through the menu filled me with overwhelming repugnance.

This wasn’t the first time I had experienced Sudden Repulsion Syndrome. The first time I was hit with SRS was shortly after my dating debacle with Chad Edelstein. I was invited on a double date with Annie and her boyfriend, and the guy they had set me up with had shown up wearing slip-on boat shoes. In February. For whatever reason, the sight of his sockless feet in faux leather slippers caused me to feel an inexplicable sense of disgust, and the rest of the night was just a domino effect. From the way he leaned over to one side when he laughed to the shade of green on his sweater—the disgust was irrevocable. When he finally leaned across the table to reach for a plate of onion rings, every muscle in my body convulsed, and I had to run out of the restaurant before I spewed all over him. It had been years since I had dealt with such an acute case of SRS, but watching the crepey skin below Mahmoud’s chin jiggle as he talked, I knew that no amount of memories over these past twelve days would salvage this relationship.

“What are you thinking?” Mahmoud’s droopy eyes gazed directly into mine.

I was really thinking about how he should quit sending people photographs of himself from 1999, but I bit my tongue. “I’m thinking I’m just going to order something light. I’m not really that hungry,” I finally said.