She is nervous. So nervous she can’t stop talking. Talking. Talking in neurotic circles. She is hyper-aware of her every word, motion, and face expression. She takes off her cardigan and tucks her leg under, a move that usually helps her feel more in control, then puts the cardigan back on. What is she so afraid of? No matter. Whatever it is, as long as she keeps saying things she doesn’t have to face it. So she talks, and talks and asks him endless, hair splitting questions. When he answers, her brain is so flooded with panic juice that she can’t muster up any follow up questions. Every question is self-labeled as either banal or stupid before it leaves her mouth. And now she has trouble recalling basic facts about her life. This feels ridiculous to a point of physical discomfort.
She: Can I just say...I am nervous. And I am not usually nervous. I don’t know what is going on. I am usually not like this. That sounds weak and insecure and neurotic again!
He: Hm...I think you are nervous because you think this could be something. And I think you are right.
Queue in brain explosion.
She: You know, it’s funny that you said that, because I have been thinking that. And queue in his loss of interest due to her oversharing.
He: You have green eyes.
She: ... sometimes.
He: Now, you have green eyes right now.
He has long legs. He stretches them out under the table and her knees are now between his, touching lightly, easily.
An hour later, they are on a park bench.
He: I’ve been wanting to kiss you for hours now.
They move closer to each other. She can smell his face and likes what she smells. They are very close.
He: Pretty much ever since we sat down to dinner.
And then they kiss. It is slow, tender. His hand is on her neck, and then cheek. It is romantic. She likes it. Very much. It is not necessarily a passionate kiss. It is a happy kiss. It is a “this could be something” kiss. Their kissing styles match immediately.
… on the subway he holds her hand. She likes the way his hand feel in hers.
* * *
Dinner number two is much less nerve wracking. Most of her sentences are perfectly coherent. A couple of times on her way from the bathroom she lightly touches his neck and shoulders, sending shockwaves down his body. Her gentleness drives him crazy. And then dinner is over, and they are walking, and their hands find each other. And she feels it. He feels it too. She feels her dreams, fantasies and life plans flow into her palm and then into his. Every now and then she catches herself holding her breath.
He: You feel really nice
She: What do you mean?
He: ... it’s just a nice feeling.
They are at that stage of physicality that she's always loved and many men skip. A time when your elbows touch and you want to take your clothes off, but you don’t, because you think this could be something and there is plenty of time for that. His advances are both confident and respectfully hesitant.
* * *
Before walking into the party, he sits down on a bench and pulls her towards him, as if in a dance. They kiss. And she feels it in her entire body. She feels his hands on her face and in her hair, and on her earlobes; she moans. He moans.
He: “You really turn me on”
After some more kissing....
She: Am I an oat?
She: Are you sowing your oats? Am I an oat?
He: What do you mean?
She: I mean, “just want to have fun, doesn’t matter with whom...”
He looks into the distance and thoughtfully says:
“No. My longterm relationship did end eight months ago, and I have done a lot of thinking this past fall. And yes I have not really figured out what it means to date yet. But you are the first person I am excited about in a long time.
He: Reactions? Thoughts?
She: Well, I guess then we dance.
She: Literally and figuratively.
They were both terrified, excited, terrified of being this excited, and alive so very alive. They went back to kissing, enveloped in a veil of thought. This could really be something.
After the party, they stand outside the house and kiss. Then they kiss some more. She is flying. Swarms of butterflies take residence everywhere in her body. Everything is tingling and she is holding her breath again. She wants to do everything and go everywhere with him. It is all so romantic.
* * *
They meet, a light kiss on the lips hello. They proceed to pretend that they are not thinking about diving into the abyss together. They have a polite, normal dinner, make conversation...what have you been up to? And you? Then there’s an excuse for their fingertips to touch...and it starts. Their hands refuse to let go of each other. I like what you are doing there. Distracting? No, just feels really good. They stare at them, the hands, then at each other...not sure what to say, even with their eyes…Ready to go? Yes. They start walking and his hand finds hers. She has to take an unplanned breath. He lifts her hand and leads her into a graceful dance turn, and she is facing him and they dive. They kiss for a while, their mouths pressed so hard against each other that the lips stop moving. It’s good, really good. Again. He whispers, I do like kissing you. She says me too. They kiss and kiss. Their bodies get closer, slowly, gradually. The embrace tightens. He moans. She moans. His hands travel up her sides, as if to pick her up, and stop politely when they reach the sides of her breasts.
* * *
Before their next date he asks her to take a walk. They walk. He tells her he is still in love with his ex and plans to try to get her back.