So, I was nervous, nervous, nervous, and my whole day was just one big build-up to the actual event. Don't get me wrong; I didn't just sit and watch water boil. I filled my hours with good and sensible things to do. I got caught up on my correspondence; I filled a photo album with pictures developed three months ago. I even organized my Winter Sweater (casual) Drawers. I sat down to Sunday lunch with my family, and we got caught up on ensuring each other’s insecurities were holding fast for another week.
Later on, I did my hair, and then I re-did my hair. Then I left it alone, and considered calling him up and cancelling, because my hair was in the throes of teenage rebellion. So I gave it up for a while, and wandered around the house, picking things up and putting things down, until such time that my hair was ready to think about what it had done, and perhaps make amends.
About an hour before I was to leave, I checked my email and found two messages from him begging me to call because he’d lost directions to the place, lost my number, and just perhaps, lost his mind as well. And I thought to myself… well, that’s to be expected, isn’t it? I mean, this evening has already been postponed and re-planned. It’s completely natural, then, that I should come within minutes of almost being stood up.
And then I kept reading, and he said it was ultimately frustrating, because he’d been looking forward to this all day, and he hoped I called soon. And so I smiled, and called him, and went to check my hair again.
I left too early, and found parking right away, and so I sat in the car and made small talk with myself in the mirror, wishing I wasn’t trying to quit smoking, and breathing into my hand every five seconds, because sometimes, my paranoia knows no bounds.
Silly, really. A first date is a first date and most of the time, it doubles as a last date too. I've had them before, I'll have them again, and they're usually murderously awkward, full of hope and hopelessness at the same time. You make small talk and you order something to drink. You hope you don't trip over anything, and you don't get too close if he's got a weird laugh. The first date is never supposed to be more than that, right? Two drinks and off you go.
Except… except… we were ushered to a table, and we sat and laughed and talked and forgot to look at the menu. And when we did, we had trouble deciding because we kept talking and laughing and distracting each other. And then, somehow, we ordered a full meal, and ate comfortably, even voraciously, it struck me between a bite of this and a bite of that that I wasn’t even a little bit nervous anymore, which of course made me very nervous indeed. And the conversation was far from small, and far from date-like, and I think, right around the time the waiter handed him his cannelloni and handed me my lasagna, we were just on the brink of solving most of the world's problems. Alpha, zulu, and everything in between was hashed over and picked apart, and before our first drinks we're finished, we'd already teased each other mercilessly and argued relentlessly, and finally just agreed to disagree.
And then we just kept talking.
I don't think we've finished our conversation yet. I'll let you know how it turns out.
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