A Few Dates

She (July) I expected very little from that second date. I remembered he was we ll-read and polite, I remembered he was tall and thin, and I remembered not wanting to see him again after our first date. I wasn’t even sure why I bothered with contacting him, agreeing to see him again. I reasoned we’d just have a pleasant non-committal chat and a couple of drinks to go with it, and part ways - a perfect way to spend a Wednesday evening.

He (July) I got to that bar early, and I was practically shivering with anticipation. When she finally showed up, my heart did a somersault something that has not happened to me in a while. She looked even more beautiful than I remembered her in a knee-length skirt that emphasized and flattered her figure, tight black tank top and a sparkling silver necklace, - walking confidently towards me, smiling. I wanted to kiss her badly right then and there, but I knew I had to play it cool. I could not believe she was finally there, sitting next to me, sipping her wine, laughing at my jokes. I knew I would do whatever it takes not to let her get away from me this time.

She (July) I saw him standing at the bar, white shirt and black jeans, black curly hair and the pair of most intense darkest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. I liked the way he looked. I’d never call him drop-dead-gorgeous, he’d never have my head turned on the street, but he had an air of calmness and confidence about him, he had a presence the quality that is so rare and so elusive, yet so important to me. We talked and drank wine, and soon we found ourselves leaning towards each other closer and closer, as if we both wanted to bridge the distance between us and share something important, something intimate, meant just for the two of us to know.

He (July) She asked me, jokingly, what my reaction to drinking alcohol was. I said it made me both more animated and more affectionate. She pushed my glass towards me then, and smiled, that wide, mischievous smile that I liked so much: Drink up! I could not control myself anymore, so I pulled her from her bar stool close to me, and started kissing her, passionately, almost aggressively. And she was responding, kissing me back, with the same hunger, same passion! I did not care then, I just wanted to devour her. I could not remember the last time I desired a woman so much.

She (July) When he kissed me, I was surprised and elated at the same time. It was a bold move on his part, a daring move, and I liked it. I liked it even more when he offered, more like ordered, to leave the bar and go to his place. I agreed right away, something I never expected myself to do. As we were just leaving that bar, he suddenly pulled me into a dark corner and kissed me with such passion, such forcefulness that it left me completely shaken, weak in the knees. He then rode his hand up my skirt a gesture that I would typically find crude and inappropriate, even offensive but it turned me on even more instead!

He (July) We were kissing hungrily in a cab, grabbing at each other and groping like two teenagers, and I was so turned on by the feeling of her skin and the taste of her lips that I actually climaxed. She did not notice, at least I was spared the embarrassment. That 15 minute cab ride took forever. I could not wait to get her out of her clothes and have her, all of her, finally, to myself.

She (July) I remembered very little of the first time we made love. It was awkward, the way it always is between two people who don’t yet know each other’s bodies, each other’s habits, likes and dislikes. When it was over, I could not wait to leave. I was not embarrassed or ashamed, or even uncomfortable in his presence; he’d been a perfect gentleman, and an affectionate lover, but he was a nobody to me, possibly a one-night stand, a soon to become nothing but a pleasant memory. He offered to stay the night, and I declined, thinking it was probably his way of being nice, his habit, his thing. We made plans to get together in a few days. He walked me out, made sure I got into a cab safely, kissed me good-bye. I was not sure I’d see him again. I didn’t care very much either.

He (July) When I returned home, I reached for my journal, which I hadn’t touched for over a year. I began writing, feverishly, my head still full of images of what just happened, visions of her body sprawled on my bed, her back arched, her arms outstretched, her legs bent. I could still taste her on my lips, smell her on my sheets and pillows. I knew I was not going to let her make me wait another 3 years for the next date. We made plans for next Sunday. I could not sleep. I wrote a poem that night. A poem about second dates and second chances, about this girl whom I’d never forgotten and who reappeared so miraculously in my life. And I knew it was just a beginning. I was going to see her on Sunday.

He (November) It was one of the longest nights of my life. I made my decision, and I had to tell her the next day. I knew the decision I made was right, the only possible solution that could be reached before it was too late, before we’d gone too far, before people got hurt, lives shattered. I knew I was doing the right thing, but my heart ached, and thoughts kept coming back to the first night she was here, in my arms, on my bed. I was yearning for her, yet I knew it was too late. I was almost happy when it was time to leave for work, for it provided some temporary distraction. I missed her badly on the train that morning.