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.
