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You Should Date An Illiterate Man Date a man who doesn't read. Find him in the weary squalor of a Central Pa bar. Find him in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of a H-burg nightclub. Wherever you find him, find him smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to him look away. Engage him with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take him outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss him in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you've seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take him to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck him.
Let the anxious contract you've unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask him to move in. Let him decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn't fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.
Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take him to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring him a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When he notices, propose to him with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If he cries, smile as if you've never been happier. If he doesn't, smile all the same.
Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the boy who didn't read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that he will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of his capacity to love.