Date with a Sociopath

“Ithink you should know… that I’m a sociopath.” That’s not really something you want to hear in the back of an Uber from a new acquaintance, in a strange new city called Singapore.

He must have noticed me jolt at the confession, because he proceeded to put his hand on my knee, as if this was supposed to make me feel better (or otherwise). “Don’t worry, I’m a high-functioning sociopath.”

A few minutes after I was dropped off at my place safely.

I could have left it at that, but I couldn’t sleep — my mind started whirring.

To say the least, it was a pretty average first date, nothing remarkable.

The difference was stark from the get go. I tried to get him to the dance floor but he dragged me back outside because he prefers to just talk.

“See, most of the time, I can’t stand people, because I’m smarter than everyone else.”

The statement oddly had no hint of arrogance, but a mere statement of fact. It must feel lonely to be 99th percentile, while the rest of us are sheltered in the normal distribution curve.

He continued. “And, you are one of the few who can hold a conversation with me for more than 10 minutes. So let’s continue talking,” he said, and I pouted like a fouryear-old on a verge of a tantrum.

My date didn’t really look anything like the sociopaths portrayed by media and thriller movies. Clean cut with glasses in a business suit with an Ivy League pedigree. He was always calm and collected; with a rationalizing voice that makes him sound like male Siri. He had a smile that was beautiful, but it never reached his eyes.

It took me days agonizing whether to contact again or not. He made such an interesting character understudy. I’ve never met a self-confessed, self-aware sociopath before. He would be great for my writing… Admittedly, his confession was probably

what prompted the lukewarm first date to an inquisitive second.

Ah, the things we do for our art. I composed my message and pressed SEND.

“Great to hear from you again,” he said, like he had been expecting me.

The writer in me was interested in his sociopathic nature. The sociopath in him was interested in my social nature. I wanted to comprehend what it feels like to be unburdened with empathy, to understand human psyche and yet vicious in exploiting them. He couldn’t handle how I wear my heart on my sleeve, and more than anything, he is repulsed by my genuine interest in people. In social interactions, how can he be so deliberate as I am impulsive? Both him and I wanted to know how the other operated.

I asked a lot of questions, thoughtprovoking, soul-probing, and sometimes politically incorrect questions. He knew my curiosity was hooked with the novelty. for both, it was refreshing: he didn’t need to feign interest in another human being; while I didn’t need to worry about putting on a filter and offending him.

He talked about people in a very impersonal manner, like he was describing houseplants. But while I asked him about everything, he never asks me about myself, about anything. He hasn’t asked me at all about myself, what I do for a living, what I like doing in the weekends.

Maybe I’m also just another houseplant. Maybe, but he was certainly attentive.

With observation he already noticed a lot of things: how I exactly wanted my coffee; or where I prefer to sit in a restaurant; or how I needed my spoon and fork and chopsticks. He certainly orders ahead for me without question when I’m late; which was always the case…

So with acute observation skills, there was really no need for questions.

I was beginning to doubt whether or not he really was sociopathic, because he was beginning to show displays of care and share stories of vulnerability. And on one morning over breakfast, I certainly didn’t miss it: he actually gave me a look of fondness.

I knew that wasn’t supposed to happen, so I quickly ran a search on Google on “sociopathic traits,” which it turns out:

No empathy, no emotion, highly manipulative, irresponsible and untrustworthy... a “high-functioning” sociopath however, is skilled at pretending into having the range of emotions or conscience.

The Google search was futile. I ended up more confused; convinced that I might also be one (a sociopath) myself. I came to the conclusion that maybe he wasn’t a sociopath, but maybe I was!

Come to think of it, while he was treating people like houseplants; I was treating people like literary characters. Isn’t that just as unfair? I used him as a character understudy — so I can figure him out and make him a character — all for the sake of my literature. I thought I had been selfish in that regard — a guy unknowingly taken advantage of for art’s sake.

I felt guilty. Of course, as a newly selfdiagnosed sociopath I’m supposed to have feelings of remorse; but maybe I’m a high-functioning sociopath that is so adept at pretending I can even fool myself with having emotions. Damn, was I good!

This was getting confusing.

On the day I was to return to the Philippines for Easter, he offered to take me to the airport. It was an opportune time to talk, own up and say goodbye.

“So… I wonder, are you comfortable with maintaining relations or do you prefer to just discard and move on?” I asked. “Discard sounds like a terrible word.” “Well, I don’t think you’re really a terrible person that you put out to be,” I said, sounding a tad bit disappointed.

“I actually think you’re a sweetheart, and I could grow fond of you. Bye.”

“Take care of yourself and see you around,” he responded and reached for my ear to whisper, “Oh, by the way…” “…you’re not going to write about me.” I met his steely gaze and knew exactly what he meant: Checkmate.