Young

You were young. He was not. (This is often the best way to describe occurrences of this nature.) You were innocent, he less so. He lives in your memory, tall, dark, handsome, tending the bar. The sweet blend of liquor and cologne will always conjure his image.

You were a hostess. Though quite skilled at your duties, you had not yet become proficient at affairs of the heart. It was a guileless flirtation, beginning to end. He was an artisan, both in bartending and romance, but he was sweet and genuine with you, refusing to use his expertise for evil.

At work you snuck calls betwixt your posts, exchanging laughs, wit and Sudoku. (He was a worthy opponent, but you won nearly every round.) You passed notes like schoolchildren, one of which, though particularly juvenile, stands out in your mind. Two boxes, check yes or no, do you like the blonde at the front desk? When you saw the hastily scribbled black X, the ‘yes’ warmed your heart regardless of the circumstance.

When you moved further from work (closer to him, as it happened), you began to carpool regularly. And though some of your coworkers may have frowned upon your entrance together, these rides were chaste. You discussed religion, movies, music, food. He introduced you to many new things, including exceptional deep dish pizza and an expansive taste in music that has stuck with you until present day. Several mix CDs were produced that featured light, airy songs of romance and the walking-on-air period before romance begins.

Though you were fairly certain other girls were involved, it didn’t faze you. You weren’t together, weren’t dating, weren’t ‘talking’. You were in that blameless, carefree period before the relationship becomes physical or emotional, the period that hardly exists once you reach your twenties.

Often you stayed late at his house after work to eat or watch movies, always with roommates, too shy even to share a blanket. Often in those days you cursed your innocence. (Looking back, you are grateful for that naïveté and the unblemished heart you walked away with.)

The first date was one of the first times you had spent alone together, certainly the first time it had been planned. By your standards today, you would not define it as a date. But it was significant to you at the time, and the memory is significant to you now.

You were about to leave for a Hawaiian vacation, and the two of you opportunistically finished work at the same time. He invited you to ice cream; you timidly accepted, praying your parents would not see you out.

You began to shake from cold as you ate your vanilla-with-raspberries-and-graham-crackers cone at your favorite ice cream parlor, wishing for a jacket. Your thin white work shirt provided no shelter, and you were somehow embarrassed to be shivering. As though an older girl would have been better insulated. He had no jacket to provide, though you appreciated how he joked to put you at ease.

You observed his jet-black hair, knowing which wax he had used to secure it, and the black polo that was his uniform, remembering how you’d watch him iron it, and you felt lucky. You couldn’t explain why, then or now, but you knew you would regard this experience as a positive one in the future.

What you talked about escapes you now. You do remember how he dropped you off at your car and you stared up at him, nearly a head taller than you, unsure how to end the night. Then he hugged you, lifting you up off your feet, and spun you around in a circle. And as you floated on air you felt life’s endless possibilities stretch before you.

Cadence

It was wintertime, and you were nervous. Piles of discarded clothes surrounded you on the floor of your mother’s closet (she had the good mirror). You were in the midst of a debate with yourself over the shimmering gold-and-white striped sweater you had donned when the doorbell sounded, the final word.

He was lauded first for collecting you at your door, and second for deeming you gorgeous, an observation he admitted made him nervous. You were wary of his flattery, but he seemed sweet. He begged advance pardon for talking too much, a trait you would come to enjoy as the evening progressed.

The date unfolded of its own accord. At some point there had been a plan, but each was so content with the other’s company you made an unspoken decision to act spontaneously. 

Over ahi sashimi you noted the olive tone of his skin and complementary, rich coffee hue of his hair, which was impeccably mussed. You were awed by the contrasting white, wide smile, which appeared often, most recently along with the suggestion that you finish your drinks quickly to progress to the night’s next part.

He was, in turn, awed when you finished your deep-hued beer 10 seconds later. You had always loved a challenge.

Ice skating was an opportunity for the former hockey player to show off, but he didn’t. This spoke more to his character than the seamless conversation you executed on the rink. You knew what you were doing, but he held your hand the whole time.

The quintessential moment came as you were leaving the rink, flushed and smiling from your revolutions around the ice. He turned suddenly, spoke some words you won’t remember later, and pressed his lips to yours, once, quickly. You felt warm in spite of the ice.

As you unlaced your skates, you made endlessly hopeful future plans and promises, though each of you was uncertain these would be fulfilled. He continued to hold your hand as you left the rink and discovered, to mutual delight, a light rain falling from the heavens. You had never before appreciated the rain, but at that moment it was magic.

He stopped you in the middle of the crowd for a dance (a salsa, per his Latin background) as your purse sat forgotten on the muddy floor. You stepped toward him, away from him, as your clothing and perfectly curled hair were doused in rainwater, a fact you were hardly aware of at the time.

The rain poured harder, insistent, and you relented and ran to the car for cover, giggling like schoolchildren. He held your door open, a gentleman through and through.

He revealed his love of wine at the seaside bar you burst into a few minutes later, laughing and shaking out your wet clothing. A fine, quiet establishment, this behavior immediately made you the center of attention as you traipsed to the rear and pulled up a couple stools near the lone guitarist.

Tonight, though, the patrons played along. Not a complaint was uttered; not one dirty look was given. When you overturned your glass and spilled the remainder of his favorite Cabernet, the guests clapped and cheered. The waitress smiled at the blush that had risen in your cheeks and offered you another glass. Someone cried, “They’re getting married!” The guitarist played his acoustic to you. 

And he smiled a joyful, proprietary smile and scooted closer to you. In the din of the room you shared a kiss that stopped time and sound. The kind of kiss that makes you feel slightly drunk afterward, as though you may fall over. The kind of kiss you linger over because you are unsure it will ever happen again. 

The remainder of the night was merely a cadence to a crescendo. (Though you hesitate at the use of merely, for it is akin to stating that Shakespeare was merely a playwright.) Once you left the bar you stood on the beach for a time, silently contemplating the stars and ocean and this moment in time. You fit in his arms as a hand in a glove. 

“We’ll always have tonight,” he whispered.

And though tomorrow was undecided, it is true.

Foxy

He was foxy, but not in the way that may imply. This quality, you noted, was betrayed in his sly grin, which gave the impression that a secret hovered behind his lips. A musky scent surrounded his person, engulfing those nearby and drawing them nearer to him as they passed through. (A week later, you will encounter a delivery man wearing the same scent. You won’t have trouble placing it.) He had a penchant for winter clothing, that was obvious; but this dinner was in Los Angeles, and the wool coat was too casual, more lightweight than he would have liked. 

The grin was distracting, and you immediately forgot whether facial hair was present or not. It hardly mattered. As you ordered a safe glass of merlot (at the top of the list, not hidden amongst the more indulgent items toward the bottom), he selected a mixed drink with vodka, another safe choice, rather than the bourbon he may have naturally tended toward.

As soon as the first glasses were imbibed, your perception grew less specific. Dark hair and eyes faded into oblivion; instead, you noticed the way he lightly touched your arm, or smiled to accompany a point. A vague sense of contentment settled in, the kind that can only be achieved with easy company and new beginnings.

You realized how much you were enjoying yourself when he spilled the contents of your wine glass. A sudden wild gesticulation and it catapulted sideways, mysteriously bypassing your person and remaining intact. Your collective, wide-eyed amusement was not shared by the girls to your left, who gave you looks as dirty as the now-red floors, napkin and menu.

A defining moment on any first encounter, his reaction to the crisis curbed any doubt you may have retained about a sense of humor. He gallantly traded his own clean items for those soiled, laughing and accepting the blame immediately as his own.

Past embarrassments now bubbled to the surface as easily as the air in a perfectly poured glass of champagne. The stolen camaraderie opened the door to a wealth of conversation, and suddenly you were entirely comfortable; you even forgot the absence of your brassiere, a choice that had seemed tame in your closet but had been weighing on your mind since arrival.

The two of you were feeling so carefree he decided to order the Kobe cheek, and you agreed wholeheartedly, suddenly coveting this unlikely animal part for reasons unbeknownst to you. (Although considering later, you may conclude that adventures are borne of these interactions. When a simple attraction to the person on the opposite side of the lacquered wooden table begets an attraction to the things they enjoy, things that are entirely new and exciting for you.)

Of food you made quick work, and the question of dessert needed no consideration as a mutual affection for chocolate was discussed at some point in the evening. Smiles were traded and sweet nothings exchanged over sweet somethings.  (Although the pure rich fudge of the brownie deserves its own portion of the story.)

Hours had passed in the space of minutes, and soon the two of you were the only patrons remaining in the restaurant. He had gone so far as to place the vase of flowers between you with its brethren on a nearby table, as the staff had begun to collect these items, so you could stay longer while they performed closing duties.

Finally the proprietor had to ask you to leave, and you were left with mixed feelings. Relief for the slight discomfort of staying past close (greatly outweighed by the pleasure of the company) mixed with disappointment that follows the end of any enjoyable evening. A look across the table confirmed these feelings were shared, though his smile maintained the same aura of mystery you’d sensed earlier.

A gentleman to the end, he escorted you through the warm night air to your car (though no pea coat-clad arm was proffered, as it was 2011), and as your lips brushed in goodbye, you earned some of his secret.

A brief discussion of the future, and you were on your way, left with that elusive, sought-after feeling: hope.