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.