halfway, and the hostess disappears. He’s so quiet for a moment that I start to question my dress choice. Is it too much? Maybe I should have gone shorter or more boobs. I fidget with the hem of the cream material, standing in the middle of an empty room feeling as if I’m being examined. My thumb goes to the cuticle I had begun mutilating earlier. Uncertainty washes over me like a wave fighting to reach the shore. I shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake. If I hadn’t explored this, Aaron could have become a myth in my safe, single world. Now, I’ve put myself out there and I want to turn and runaway.
He licks his lips and says, “Wow! MK, you’re stunning.”
I become so light from the weight off my shoulders that I could float. Dropping my chin, I look up at him through my eyelashes. “Thank you. You aren’t so bad yourself.”
He chuckles as he takes my hand and leads me to our table by a window. Pink roses are trimmed close to the bud and float in a fishbowl-style vase. Our seats are close together—it’s intimate. A few people walk by outside, only separated from us by the glass. I wonder if they know I’m on a first date and very nervous. Are they looking in the window and making up a back story on us?
A gust of wind blows outside, and the old windows can’t hold it at bay. Goose pimples break out on my arms and a little shiver overtakes my body.
“Are you cold?” he asks. The V forms between his eyes like I saw last night when I fell.
“A bit,” I reply, wishing I still had my coat for comfort but a bit sad my dress would be hidden.
“We can move. Pick a table,” he says as he gestures around the empty room.
I waited tables in college. You can’t just pick any table in a restaurant. There’s a system, a method to how patrons are seated. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea. We should check with the hostess first. We want to make sure we sit where a waiter has been assigned.”
Aaron leans in as if he’s about to let me in on a big secret. “I bought out the whole room. Pick where you want.”
Well then.
I try to play it cool. Sure, I’ve been on dates before where the guy has bought a room. I mean, who hasn’t, right?
Oh God. He wouldn’t have bought a whole room if he didn’t have the same feelings for me as I do for him.
Aaron, whose last name I don’t know, is absolutely, positively, definitely not in oil and gas. Gas prices are too low for an oil man to buy out half a restaurant.
I stand up and choose a table on the opposite wall but still in a corner. I think Aaron has a corner fetish. He follows behind me, carrying the fishbowl of pink roses.
“Better?” he asks when we’re seated again.
“Much.” I’m feeling so shy. Normally my mouth runs a mile a minute, but I’m completely out of my league. I want to ask him a million questions, but I don’t think he wants to share a lot about himself. I don’t want to ramble on about me because, well, that makes me sound self-absorbed. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’s interested in politics, and the weather makes for boring conversation. I literally have no clue what to say. Should I ask what his favorite color is?
Fortunately, he breaks the silence. “How’s your head?”
“Good.” I reach back and run my hand over the bump. “I have a large knot which made its presence known when I washed my hair this morning.” I lift my arm to show him my bruised elbow. “And I have this, but I’ll make it.” Then I remember the flowers he sent. “Umm . . . thank you for the beautiful pink roses today. The ladies in my office really enjoyed them. By the way, how did you know where I worked?”
He leans back in his chair and takes a sip from the glass that the carried with him when we changed tables. He’s so cool. If he’s as nervous as I am, it doesn’t show. “You told me your first and last name last night. It’s not hard to get an office address.”
“But you said you’re not on
He licks his lips and says, “Wow! MK, you’re stunning.”
I become so light from the weight off my shoulders that I could float. Dropping my chin, I look up at him through my eyelashes. “Thank you. You aren’t so bad yourself.”
He chuckles as he takes my hand and leads me to our table by a window. Pink roses are trimmed close to the bud and float in a fishbowl-style vase. Our seats are close together—it’s intimate. A few people walk by outside, only separated from us by the glass. I wonder if they know I’m on a first date and very nervous. Are they looking in the window and making up a back story on us?
A gust of wind blows outside, and the old windows can’t hold it at bay. Goose pimples break out on my arms and a little shiver overtakes my body.
“Are you cold?” he asks. The V forms between his eyes like I saw last night when I fell.
“A bit,” I reply, wishing I still had my coat for comfort but a bit sad my dress would be hidden.
“We can move. Pick a table,” he says as he gestures around the empty room.
I waited tables in college. You can’t just pick any table in a restaurant. There’s a system, a method to how patrons are seated. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea. We should check with the hostess first. We want to make sure we sit where a waiter has been assigned.”
Aaron leans in as if he’s about to let me in on a big secret. “I bought out the whole room. Pick where you want.”
Well then.
I try to play it cool. Sure, I’ve been on dates before where the guy has bought a room. I mean, who hasn’t, right?
Oh God. He wouldn’t have bought a whole room if he didn’t have the same feelings for me as I do for him.
Aaron, whose last name I don’t know, is absolutely, positively, definitely not in oil and gas. Gas prices are too low for an oil man to buy out half a restaurant.
I stand up and choose a table on the opposite wall but still in a corner. I think Aaron has a corner fetish. He follows behind me, carrying the fishbowl of pink roses.
“Better?” he asks when we’re seated again.
“Much.” I’m feeling so shy. Normally my mouth runs a mile a minute, but I’m completely out of my league. I want to ask him a million questions, but I don’t think he wants to share a lot about himself. I don’t want to ramble on about me because, well, that makes me sound self-absorbed. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’s interested in politics, and the weather makes for boring conversation. I literally have no clue what to say. Should I ask what his favorite color is?
Fortunately, he breaks the silence. “How’s your head?”
“Good.” I reach back and run my hand over the bump. “I have a large knot which made its presence known when I washed my hair this morning.” I lift my arm to show him my bruised elbow. “And I have this, but I’ll make it.” Then I remember the flowers he sent. “Umm . . . thank you for the beautiful pink roses today. The ladies in my office really enjoyed them. By the way, how did you know where I worked?”
He leans back in his chair and takes a sip from the glass that the carried with him when we changed tables. He’s so cool. If he’s as nervous as I am, it doesn’t show. “You told me your first and last name last night. It’s not hard to get an office address.”
“But you said you’re not on
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