I arrive 15 minutes early (the bus down second avenue is surprisingly fast tonight) and he is already seated at a small table in the front. He greets me warmly and takes my coat. The first thing he says is, “Let me tell you about my sickness.” I’m not ready to hear about any chronic diseases. But then he surprises me with, “I have never been late in my life.” That’s his sickness. He would be the perfect date for my mother, who arrives hours early everywhere she goes.
Before we even order he mentions something about my blog. I have never told him I write a blog. Our only correspondence has been a couple of brief emails to set up the date. His explanation: “I never arrive anywhere unprepared.”
The restaurant starts to fill up but is never noisy. We talk about many subjects and I soon learn that he has been divorced for three years, after 20 years of marriage. He’s successful, generous, and intent on finding a partner with whom to share his life. He knows what he wants. I admire that. But I’m afraid my plans are not as developed.
I have a glass of red wine, we split an endive salad, and I order steak au poivre with fries. The apricot tarte we split for dessert is heavenly. The food is excellent; the pace is leisurely.
When he tries to hold my hand after dinner, I pull back and blurt out that I don’t like to hold hands. He correctly surmises that I’m not a touchy feely type. He good-naturedly describes me as “charming and cold.” Why do these comments just pop out of my mouth uncensored? I feel like Melissa Leo accepting the best supporting actress Oscar and accidently saying f--k.
He insists on seeing me home, even though it means taking a cab with me 25 blocks north when he’s heading 10 blocks south. His good manners are impressive. I’m sure I’m not the life-partner he’s looking for, but it is a nice evening at a nice restaurant with a very nice man.
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