Dancing In The Dark

I remember everything about the day we met like it was yesterday. It was a beautiful spring day, a Friday going into a weekend without big plans. E-mail banter had escalated into a long telephone conversation, one without much point, except to cement the attraction that had been growing between us. We decided to throw caution to the wind and put faces to the names that had been part of our lives for so long.

We agreed to meet at a restaurant in neutral territory. No pressure, no big deal. Let's just have a drink and see where things go. But for some reason, I was a nervous wreck. I left work early -- I had to pick up my car at the garage, change into a little black dress, primp a little...

Bruce Springsteen said it best: "I check my look in the mirror, I want to change my clothes, my hair, my face..."

I called him from the car to tell him that, between a mechanic who wanted to chat and weekend traffic, I was running late. Not to worry, he said, he'd be waiting at the bar with a beer in his hand. When I got there, I had to sit in the car for few minutes to compose myself. Butterflies! The ice princess had butterflies! This was serious.

Deep breath, tousle hair, apply lipstick, go! Our eyes met the instant I walked through the door, and his face lit up into a big smile. I shook his hand, uncertain what proper protocol dictated at a moment like this. I ordered a glass of red wine and sat down next to him. Try as I might, I couldn't meet his gaze for more than a few seconds, because I felt like I would give away too much if I let him look in my eyes for too long. The TV over the bar was tuned to baseball, so I feigned a deep interest in the national pasttime to disguise his effect on me.

Conversation flowed easily, and we decided to move on to a better restaurant for dinner. We found an Italian place downtown that could seat us immediately. The food was mediocre, but I'm not sure either of us really noticed. By this time, I had regained enough composure to look at him. He kept reaching toward me and drawing away at the last moment, unsure if I'd welcome the advance. I decided to keep him off balance.

He paid the tab for dinner, and we wandered out on to the street in search of music. We found a great band at a nearby bar, but after we settled into a booth in the back, we forgot why we'd chosen this bar in the first place. More free-wheeling conversation, more laughter, more beer. He finally worked up the nerve to put his arm around me. His touch was electric.

I could tell he wanted to kiss me, but I kept averting him. Everything had been so perfect up to this point, I didn't want anything to ruin it. I kept thinking, "What if he's a bad kisser." I couldn't bear it if he was one of those guys who's wide-mouthed and sloppy, all tongue and no finess. Or worse, if he kissed like he was still in junior high, all stiff and fish-faced. Staring at myself in the hazy mirror of a dimly-lit ladies room, I decided it was the moment of truth. Here goes nothing, I told myself.

If only he'd been a bad kisser, I might have spared myself a world of agony. But no, he was phenomenal. He kissed me the way I wanted to be kissed. Still does. And the truly sad thing is, I haven't kissed anyone else since that moment. It kills me to know that he has.


The Wife Who Knows