twenty-something

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The moon was full or nearly so, and I was feeling bold. We stood side by side overlooking the city of Burlington at 1a.m., my six-foot-two frame nearly towering over all five-eight of him, just like I like it. The view wasn't much from the top of the mall parking deck, but when his shoulder lightly nudged me, I knew I wasn't the only one who saw something in that night.

I turned to him, my intentions clear.

"Kiss me," he breathed, as if he had a choice.

I slipped one arm past him, placing it on the small of his back, and drew him into me. He looked up and then -- we kissed. We were kissing. The cold November air swirled around us. And it was good.

* * *
I was five minutes late and he was nowhere to be seen. Uncomfortable waiting alone in a Starbucks without any defenses, I immediately ordered a tall peppermint mocha to keep me company. I sank into a booth, eyes wide, watching for him. He called soon after, of course -- frantic, apologetic, his excuse the lack of parking in downtown Burlington on a Friday night -- and I waited, on edge, clutching the holiday-flavored latte I barely sipped, for the second date I was sure would never happen.

Our first, in my mind, was a disaster. We met in Montpelier, some forty-five minutes from my home in Charlotte, and the moment I stepped out of my Volvo station wagon, I realized that I had left my wallet at home. Cursing, I searched my pockets and my car for anything to pay for my half of our dinner date, finding only four dollars and some change. My date was more than accommodating when I made this revelation, as we made our way up the stairs to the Black Door Bistro -- but the dynamic had been irrevocably disturbed. I had no choice but to follow his lead. Veal ravioli for an appetizer? OK. A similarly priced entrée? That's a given. Another class of wine? Sure.

Conversation was decent -- not as sparkling as it was online or the phone, but it was playful and smart, slightly better than average, equal parts comfortable and awkward. But midway through the meal, I realized that I was following his lead with conversation as well, letting him call all the shots. I was quiet, shy, nervous, and uninteresting. I was choking, or so I thought, and then it hit me: This is my first date since Duncan and I broke up. This is my first date in three years. That realization didn't help the quickly deteriorating situation.

He ordered dessert and I followed suit. After he revealed that he was a notoriously bad tipper, we left the bistro and walked for a bit in the cold, dark Montpelier night. There was no after-dinner plan, and I realized that we were walking to our cars. There was a handshake, vague mention of "doing this again," and the specific assertion that the ball was in my court. There was no clear expression of interest or rejection. I hit the highway back home convinced that I was not ready to date yet and that I would never see this man again.

About a week later, and not long after his call, I saw him through the wall of windows, bouncing and bounding towards the coffeeshop, and I projected my feelings on him -- nervousness, excitement, dread. He wore a bright green shirt under an Oscar de la Renta blazer, a bold, unmatching red scarf tight around his throat. This is not the kind of guy I date, I thought -- and yet the sight of him made me smile to myself, but only for a moment. I was careful to look down at my drink before he could catch me staring.

I looked up again only after I heard the door open and knew he was headed my way. I gave a friendly grimace to the right of my face as our eyes met –- his, deep amber spotlights, hidden by his designer glasses and enhanced by his thick, brown eyebrows -- and, somehow, I knew that night would be different.

TO BE CONTINUED