Last Saturday, our eyes met across the bar exchanging furtive glances over our respective pints. He was too shy to approach me until the stranger sitting between us literally made him swap seats. Boy-next-door cute, I assumed he wouldn’t even pass the chit-chat test. To my surprise, a genuine kindness shone through the dive bar malaise surrounding me. We nervously exchanged digits and made plans for Thursday.  That was more than 3 days away.  He might actually be interested in me. 

Day of he contacts me to choose a spot.  Asking where I live, he’s considerate enough to choose a location close to my place.  Maybe he remembers that I don’t like to drive?  Scheduled to meet at 7:30, I’m not sure if that’s tentative dinner time or not.  I’ve decided to get a quick bite at the Mecca beforehand.  And Irish coffee.  Liquid courage is called for.  The pit stop will make me late but I’ve heard that’s fashionable in some circles.  I don’t know what to talk about with a pretty person.

My fears are assuaged in his first smile.  We manage to make conversation about anything and everything, though I might have done more of the talking.  I caught him giving me the up-down one time but other than that he was the perfect gentleman.  One of those dates you aren’t sure how to end because the company is great but the vibe is completely casual.  He apparently didn’t have any qualms about the vibe.  Coming in for a kiss at the end of the night, he asked to see me again.  I love it when they don’t play games.

I’m not used to people thinking I’m pretty.  Only a handful of folks in my hometown gave me any notice for looks and that was mostly due to cleavage.  The difference here is bizarre, as if they operate on a different definition of beauty.  I’m trying not to get overwhelmed but everyone here also respects the idea of moving slow.  I’m experiencing legitimate dating, like when there’s time in-between seeing someone during which you are free to do whatever you want.  This must be what it feels like to be an adult.