Date Night at a Killer Exhibition

Last month, my boyfriend David and I decided to class up our relationship by skipping the clichéd wine bars and opting for something more us—learning how to kill each other using all natural ingredients. The Power of Poison Exhibition was at the Arizona Science Center, and it was a date that walked a fine line between innocent curiosity and probable cause. “Technically” this was “research” for my novels.

It turned out to be a gloriously macabre playground. Allow me to set the scene: Antique apothecary bottles were scattered throughout the exhibit, Snow White lay unmoving in a glass coffin surrounded by life-like silk trees, and nearby, in a plastic cube dripping with condensation, a live frog crouched impossibly cute and quietly tragic, like a tiny condemned jewel.

And then there was the giant enchanted book, its animated pages blooming with toxic flora as you turned them, a sort of botanical grimoire practically daring curious idiots (raises hand) to reach out and test their luck.

The exhibition also had the audacity to remind us that poisons can heal, from life-saving medicines to antidotes that snatch you back from the brink. And, best of all, there was an entire section exploring poison in myth, legend, and storytelling.

David moved briskly ahead, reading every plaque at lightning speed while I lingered behind at a slower-than-usual pace. I needed time to appreciate the nuances of the displays, and, at one point, to make an urgent exit when the large Dr. Pepper I’d foolishly trusted betrayed me in spectacular fashion. Because, midlife: the gift that keeps on humbling.

When I emerged from the restroom, slightly traumatized but undefeated, I found him gaping at a sign about early 1900s doctors who used curare to paralyze patients for surgery without realizing that it didn't actually put their victims to sleep or block their pain. You have to respect a medical approach that combines ignorance and horror in such equal measure.

I didn’t say much aloud, but in my head, I contemplated things like, which poison would be the most elegant murder weapon, and which would cause the most spectacular digestive explosion (my problem in the bathroom gave me an idea for a future novel).

After I finally finished reading and re-reading each placard and snapping pics of each display, I found David waiting patiently in an quiet hallway, completely unbothered. He knew this was research, and he never once made me feel rushed or ridiculous. He was just supportive in his agreeable, relaxed way.

So, after three hours of separate-but-together morbidity, we stepped out into the blazing late afternoon sun and agreed the entire day had been a ton of fun.

This is something I love about midlife dating. You don’t have to pretend you’re not a little weird. You can skip any performative glamour and instead spend your Saturday learning about bullet ants and blowgun darts, then flop on a bench to commiserate over uncomfortable shoes and whatever minor medical problems arose during the day.

Later, over tiki drinks and ahi sandwiches, we didn’t dissect the exhibits much. Some outings don’t need a postmortem. We were just content to eat, enjoy each other’s company, and feel pleasantly alive after an afternoon surrounded by reminders of how easily we might not be.

He even volunteered to Google character-related queries for me—the stuff I’m not brave enough to enter into my own search history. Nothing says devotion like I’ll risk the NSA watchlist for you.

The world sells romance as sunsets and grand gestures, but personally, I think real, lasting love is built more on You’re as strange as I am, and I totally dig it.

So . . . may we all find someone who doesn’t flinch at our ghoulish intellectual pursuits, our untimely digestive plot twists, or our best-left-unexplained Google search history.