Maybe a first date

Morning darklings,

It must have been February 4, 2012 when my friend and I were talking about the movie The Artist. I think I only worked on Saturdays at The Colony at that point.

How the conversation started, I don’t remember.

But the best bits went something like this:

“I’ve been wanting to see it. Most of my friends don’t want to watch a movie in black and white, though,” he says.

“Me too. Most of the Rialto crew went last night, and my other friends are the same.” Pause. Deep breath. Tingly feeling all over. Not nervous, just afraid of ruining everything. But after a year of flirting, maybe… “Want to go with me this week? Maybe Tuesday?”

Flushing cheeks answer me. “Sure, that sounds like fun!”

Ohmygodwe’regoingonadatefinally. And look, ma, I waited until he was almost 21!

I agonize over my outfit for days. I talk about it with my sister and my mom. Is this a date-date? I meant it to be, but I asked a little too casually, maybe. And we’re just going to The Rialto—my other workplace. How dressy should I really get?

Sparkly skirt and low-cut shirt? no

Jeans and a nice shirt? no

A simple dress and flats? sure

It isn’t resounding, because my mom is certain he doesn’t know it’s a date. I wouldn’t have known, she says.

I arrive 10 minutes early. There is only one real place to park—down a street called Glenwood. Just one long irritating road. After that runs out, it’s neighborhoods that feel years away and will induce potential sweatiness at the base of my skull and under my arms. Whether it is or is not a date, that won’t start us off on a good foot.

I try to fluff my hair and check the modest amount of makeup I’m wearing. Despite it being 45 degrees, everything about me screams humidity afoot.

When he arrives, I see him before he sees me. My everything falls—heart, stomach, the last curl my hair was white knuckling.

It’s not a date.

He’s in a snarky red shirt and jeans.

But when his eyes notice my dress, my crazed hair, my melted mascara, the ashy complexion of a young woman who misread the situation, he turns red. Before he can comment, I say that it’s good to see him and I’m glad he was able to join me. What else can I say?

Without another word, I make my way to the double doors. He catches it before I can push, opens it for me. I hate that he’s a gentleman. I hate that this isn’t a date. I hate the way I look. I hate his stupid t-shirt. I hate Tuesdays.

My boss’ voice rings out over the sound of popping and chatter between my co-worker and two customers. “Oh my god, look at the cuteness!”

Mortified, I try to wave her off without him noticing. I can’t remember if I told her this was a date or just that I liked him or if she’s just inferred things. I can’t remember because I’m nervous and so embarrassed.

His face turns a new shade of red, which makes me feel even worse.

“Do you want some wine?” I ask, as if booze will help the situation.

“I’ll just have some of whatever you’re having. Not 21 yet, remember?”

He’s precious, really. A literal week away and at a place I’ve worked at for years, but he’s still trying to be good and law-abiding.

I get a double Pinot Grigio—brand name: whatever they bought wholesale. The thin plastic cup it comes in is meant for overzealous and watered-down jello shots, so it squishes if you even think about squeezing too hard. As I want to break something, it’s hard not to tighten my fist around the cup until it becomes the melted goo it started off as again, but we decide to grab a little popcorn too. The Rialto is known for its popcorn. Truly the best anywhere.*

I’m certain my co-worker says we’re cute together, but I don’t hear who responds or how. If it’s me, I’m not aware of my choices. All I want to do it sit down. Once we’re sitting, things will go back to normal.

We’ve been friends for ages. I just need to burst this bubble of disappointment.

Once seated, it gets worse. We brush hands, just like in the movies. Our arms try to share space on the armrest, just like in the movies.

The thing is, I can do this dance with anyone, anytime if I don’t have feelings for them, and it’s no big deal. There’s no awkward laughter or no, you go aheads.

But with him…

The movie is brilliant.

We whisper to each other now and again, our heads touching as we tell each other real-time thoughts we’re having. Like best buds, I guess.

His lips would taste like wine. But also him. And I love the scent of him. Not anything he wears, but him. So what would he taste like without the wine? Nononono.

I say something about a flapper dress I’d die to wear. He says I’d look beautiful in it. I stop leaning to him.

His fingers brush mine.

But they don’t interlock, it was just an accident.

I die.

The movie is over.

It’s still not a date. It was never a date.

“So, what did you think?” he asks first. He always asks first. While I’m about to burst with thoughts, he’s mulling, considering.

I go on one of my shorter soliloquies discussing plot and character and setting, praise the black and white choice to hone in on style and the actual skill of the actors before asking him. He’s much more succinct, as always. He talks about character and plot, questions the black and white choice because it narrows the audience.

Verdict: we both loved it.

I don’t know who says it. I think it’s him. I think I resigned myself to sliding into bed early for a good cry to try and get him out of my system. I’m crazy about my friend, so that’ll be hard, but I’m sure it must be done.

So I can only assume it’s him who asks what I’m up to next, asks if I’m hungry, asks if I want to get a pizza at Lily’s.

I drive, I remember that. Mostly because he hates my driving. He clutches the Jesus bar like I’m the bus driver from Speed.

We get our usual—a white pizza. (Oh, yeah, we're take-out regulars. Most of The Rialto and The Colony ambadassadors** are).

Conversation flows, laughter follows. We are back to us. I can live with him just being my friend, as long as he doesn’t go anywhere.

He asks if I’m up for anything else. I ask him what, and he doesn’t have suggestions.

Most things are closed on Tuesdays after 10, so I suggest walking around a quiet downtown. It’s cold, but at least the night doesn’t end yet.

We’ve never hung out outside of work, and no matter how he feels about me (I really can’t believe I read the signs so wrong), he’s such a wonderful person.

It’s midnight, so very few people mill about. We’re still laughing and talking.

Our knuckles brush. My heart flips, but flops right back. It means no—he reaches for my hand, cups it. It’s so chaste, this moment. Two people trying to figure out what’s next outside in the February cold.

Fingers interlace seconds later, and we stop talking. I don’t know about him, but I can hear our heartbeat sync up. The puffs in front of us dot patterns of new excitement in the air.

I think we walk another block or two like that before he pauses to kiss me.

It’s not just a first date kiss. It’s the kind of kiss that declares things. We can never go back to being just friends, the kiss says. Remember you’re in public, my mind adds as we look for a bench to sit on.

But it rained earlier, so the seats have puddles.

We opt for the side of a building instead. Up against a brick wall, under the warm glow of a street lamp, he snatches any breath I had left.

This kiss—our second, technically speaking—is seen by many exiting a small venue. They whistle and laugh and shout out things that are muffled to the soft sounds of us. We are in a bubble. The strangers cheer on the end of one relationship and the beginning of another, their excitement for The Cuteness is a celebration of what’s to come.

—Though we don’t know it yet, we’ll share this story a zillion times over before we got married and another few zillion after. Though we don’t know it yet, 14 years from now, we’ll still be best friends and lovers and getting through the world together. Though we don’t know it yet, we’ll still be finding out new things about each other, still trying new things together, still playing, still loving, still making out under street lamps (just not against brick anymore).—

When we break apart, my fingers are as numb as my lips are tingly. We’ve been here a while. Going home is scary. Going home means he will sleep on what just happened. He will wake up and realize that he initiated a passionate kiss in public. This is very brave for him, and I worry it’ll make him run away.

But as we walk back to the car, he asks if this was always meant to be a date, if he just missed it. He says he wanted it to be a date but thought it couldn’t possibly be one.

“Well, it was. And even if it didn’t start off that way, it sure did end that way,” I say.

He kisses me before we get in the car. He kisses me when I drop him off at his. And he’s still kissing me today.

*There is still no place or no type of popcorn that compares to fresh popcorn from The Rialto—East Coast, West Coast, megaplexes, indie theaters, playhouses, event space, farm, friend’s house, my house. If you’ve tasted it, you know. If you haven’t, I’m so sorry for your loss.

**The parent company for the theatres was Ambassador Entertainment, so we called ourselves the ambadassadors. Cute, right?

About the launch party

Joyce’s launch was a smash hit! The venue was lovely. The hosts and guests were lovelier. We all dressed up for the occasion. Everyone asked insightful questions, and I gave mostly coherent answers. My fused glass lantern and embroidery looked perfect in the space. And I shared some upcoming things with them—book covers and news and a first look at The Little Periodical (more

info and pre-orders in two weeks)!

look at those eyes… you can tell I’m fork-ready

and a random wolf

The other day, there was a wolf scooting in the neighbor’s yard. The hubs went out to check and make sure it was okay, watch it for a second. It was just trying to get from one forested area to another, so all was well. But he was able to catch a photo of another scoot! ❤️ 

Until next time, harness the Little darknesses and embrace the Little things.