As the bus crawls towards Rittenhouse, it dawns on me: this might possibly be my last first date. Not because of anything in particular in his profile or the messages we’ve been exchanging (although I do like him quite a bit on paper) but because of me. I finally have my sh*t together.
I’m wearing jeans and we’re meeting at a cheap Mexican place for happy hour tacos and margaritas. Part of me wishes we were going someplace fancier, but really only so that I can brag to my friends about it. (The truth is I can’t afford any place fancier right now, not with the house, and I don’t want to assume that he’s going to pick up the tab so one dollar tacos are actually a much safer bet.)
The date itself doesn’t blow me out of the water. There’s a bit of an awkward kerfuffle as we make our way to the booth and he seems a bit nervous, but its a safe date. A date with potential. He’s tall, and cute, and I like his shoes. He listens, and asks questions, and every time our conversation starts to drift off into the mutual silence of a first date, he rescues it, like a tennis player lobbing the ball back over the net just before it hits the ground. Most importantly, we laugh a lot.
He picks up the tab and we agree to make a quick stop at Starbucks before he heads off to catch the train and I head off to catch the bus. I’m still not entirely sure how I feel about him but he turns to me and says quite clearly, “It was lovely meeting you and I really enjoyed myself. What about you, did you enjoy yourself? Would you like to do this again?”
I’m a bit surprised. What about the three day rule? What about playing it coy? What about leaving me hanging and forcing me to spend the next 48 hours checking my phone? Where is all of the usual nonsense?
But there isn’t any. There’s just me and him, standing on a street corner and he has, quite deftly, sent the ball straight into my court.
So I pick it up.
And I say yes.
And that, dear readers, was two months ago.