Today I read something that got my heart to thinking. Is there anything sweeter than being past the intros, but still in the mystery?
We've all been there:
...the please don't let me run out of things to say, first date. The one where you realize his eyes are the color of the black coffee he almost ordered. The one where you learn his profession, his origins, his favorite band, the books he's read, that his smile is perfect. Where you wish that you had invested a bit more time in the application of your make-up, that you had checked your teeth before he arrived, that you could tame butterflies. Before you make the surreal drive home through imagined clouds, he hugs you, and for a moment you forget to breathe.
...the can this frock possibly transcend the dress code of anywhere in this city and/or state that might be contained beneath the umbrella of "dinner, at eight," second date. The one where he comes to your front door like a gentleman. Where he's even more dapper in dress pants and a button-up than he was in jeans. Where he opens your truck door and you think Xanax thoughts to calm yourself as he walks around to the other side. The one where you try not to spill the wine, or spatter your entree as you move it in small fragments from plate to mouth in unnatural deliberation. Where you are ever more drawn to his sense of humor, his effortless display of intelligence, his class, his allure. You finally calm your nerves to the point of easy conversation, and you wonder if, rather you hope, he moves in for a kiss before the evening ends.
...the please don't let my cooking skills fail me now, third date. When you drum your fingers nervously on the kitchen counter in percussional prayer. Where you hope that of everything in your closet that might count for "casual," the GAP jeans and tee are the most perfect. Where you buy back-up, pre-packaged pasta an hour before he shows just in case. Where you cross your fingers under the table as he takes the first bite and seems successfully impressed. Where the details begin to act as mortar to the facts. The ones that you scrawl into mental notes. Where your heart jumps when he wraps his arm around you in the dark, and the unexpected burst of fireworks have somehow just made the night more epic than memorable. Where he tells you that this date tops all of his others and all of the others about which he has ever heard. And as you gaze out over the city lights, your fingers momentarily entwine and you try to hide the telltale smile that is strung from ear to ear.
This is my favorite part. When you move slowly and slightly past "strangers" and brave a step toward something more.