Sheridan and Allen.

My turn, I suppose. This is something I wrote just a day or two after my fateful first date with Sheridan. I knew it had the chance to be something special, but I had no idea just how special it would wind up becoming.

So, without further ado…

First Date

You’re standing at her front door with a pot of tiny daffodils in your hands, looking at a print of Georges Seurat’s “A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte.” Your palms are a bit sweaty and your stomach is fluttering like a migrating monarch, but all things considered, you’re okay.

You can’t remember the last time you were this nervous. About anything. You know you’re being a bit foolish; after all, the hard part is done. You asked, she said yes. You remind yourself to remember that. She said yes.

She opens the door, flashing that beautiful smile. Her eyes dance with that sparkle of intelligence and mischief, that sparkle that played a large part in drawing you to her in the first place. She invites you in and you immediately manage to turn her hug of greeting into something slightly awkward by attempting to thrust the daffodils into her hands.

She smells so good.

She offers you a drink and the dime tour. You accept both. Armed with a glass of bourbon (Knob Creek, you note with approval), the two of you meander through her apartment. The walls are covered with paintings and photographs; she shares with you some of the stories that are hanging on her walls. You’re feeling her warmth, like she’s inviting you in, inviting you closer.

You wander to the bookshelf, despite the danger of being perceived as rude. You’ve always thought of bookshelves as interesting – if not always accurate – barometers of a person’s character. As you suspected, the words populating her shelves are wide-ranging and a bit esoteric. You see a few volumes that surprise you, as well as a few more you’d like to investigate yourself.

There’s still a little time before the show, so the two of you sit down on the couch. You wonder if your nervousness is obvious. You wonder if she’s nervous as well. If she is, she certainly appears to be masking it well. The two of you talk freely and easily, even with that manic monarch fluttering around your insides. You laugh your way through conversations about everything under the sun. This is the good part; no, the great part. The way she talks to you. The way you talk to her. Just the feeling you have when you’re near her.

You finish your drink and it’s time to go. She looks so lovely; you find yourself thinking about gently pushing her hair back behind her ear, looking into her eyes. The two of you walk down the stairs and out to your car. You endure a brief internal struggle as you debate whether to open her door for her; you freeze. She opens her own door. You try not to feel like a betrayer of the chivalric code.

The theatre is mere minutes away from her apartment, and so before you know it, you’re pulling into a parking lot behind the place. She refers to it as “secret parking,” which secretly pleases you even if she is only joking. You walk to the front door, managing to at least open that door for her. You greet your friend at the box office; a friend she knows as well. As the two of you make your way into the theatre, you find yourself greeting others. You hope you aren’t being rude, but you just want to get to your seats and sit down next to her.

The show begins, and it’s good. Quite good, actually. And yet…you find your attention lapsing from time to time as her presence beside you continues to force its way into your awareness. You find yourself leaning over to whisper to her, silly attempts at cleverness intended to make her laugh. Silly, successful attempts, much to your delight. You shift in your seat, arranging yourself so that you can feel her shoulder against yours, seeking out that tiny bit of contact. You’re enjoying yourself immensely, and the nerves are gradually subsiding. You wish you could talk to her more.

The show reaches its conclusion and the two of you make your way through the lobby and out the door. The restaurant is a short walk, but you offer to drive anyway. She waves you off and the two of you make your way down the street.

The pit of your stomach drops a bit as you walk through the door of the restaurant and you realize that there’s a guy sitting there with an acoustic guitar, surrounded by speakers. You can just see your visions of a fun, conversation-laden dinner crumbling around you. Determined to make the best of an unexpected situation, you bring her with you to the table farthest removed from the unwanted troubadour.

You sit across from her, taking her in, wondering how you wound up spending time with this wonderful person. The two of you talk and laugh and order drinks. The menus arrive, and as you each peruse them, she says “Order for me” with a wry smile on her face. You’ve never felt like the kind of guy who can order for a woman; that kind of move always seemed the domain of men far cooler, far more debonair than you. And yet…for her? Yes. You order her the blackened salmon, the angus steak for yourself.

Meanwhile, your musical guest has proven to be less of an obstacle than you had originally thought. His song choices, as well as the reaction of a surprisingly raucous audience, blend seamlessly into your good time. The music is in your respective wheelhouses. The two of you are chatting and enjoying your meals (and you silently congratulate yourself on not blowing that one), sharing all sorts of interesting informative tidbits about yourselves. She makes you laugh. You make her laugh. And all the while, you keep wanting to pinch yourself. Is it a dream? Or is she really having as much fun as you are?

And then…Dave.

You’ve known Dave since you were in high school. He’s one of those guys that you sort of lost track of as you’ve lived your life. Not because you don’t like the guy; it’s just the way things happen sometimes. You haven’t talked to him in years, but there he is. You see him making his way toward the restroom and he’ll most assuredly pass by you on the way; you have to make a snap decision. Do you address him yourself, get it out of the way? Or do you pretend you don’t see him, hoping he doesn’t see you but sacrificing the initiative if he does?

You wave at him and introduce him to her. You make some small talk; turns out he’s working in town. His brother is the musician you’ve been listening to. Also? Dave is very, very drunk. But you’re not judging him for that. Lord knows you’ve been known to take a drink or two yourself. He excuses himself and you proceed to pay the check. She won’t give up without a fight, but you make it clear that she will absolutely not be paying. You’re just about ready to take your leave.

However, a problem arises when Dave decides to stop by on his way back from the bathroom. He stops alongside your table, points to you and says to her “You should really have sex with this guy.” Your world grays out for a second. You’ve never been this mortified in your entire life. You’re so stunned and horrified, in fact, that all you can do is throw your head back and cover your face with your hands, trying to hide the crimson flush that you can already feel creeping onto your face. As such, you only hear snippets of the next minute of conversation – terrible, awful snippets. Words like “thick” and phrases like “I’ve seen it” somehow find their way through the loudness and into your ears.

After what seems like a horrifying eternity, but in reality is likely less than a minute, your drunken friend stumbles off, leaving you to hope that the evening hasn’t been permanently dampened. When you and she look at one another, she bursts out laughing. Your own laughter follows, and just like that, the whole mess is just a surreal footnote to a wonderful night.

The two of you make your way through the crowd to the front door. She’s walking in front of you, and so doesn’t immediately notice when Dave grabs you and begins drunkenly apologizing for his inappropriateness. Since the whole thing had already been laughed off, you assure him that no harm was done and make your way out the door to where she awaits.

You’re just about to share the story of the drunken apology with her when the door flies open and out hurtles Dave. He goes to her and begins apologizing to her as well. Sorry is all well and good, but you’re ready to let it go. Luckily, a group of people who appear to be as drunk as Dave is, led by someone who seems to know him, comes by. Dave is distracted by the newcomers, and so you place your hand in the small of her back, lean close and whisper in her ear:

“We gotta go. Now. It’s our only chance.”

You take advantage of the distraction and make your way out of the square and up the street. A chill has settled into the air; not cold necessarily, but certainly brisk. She mentions that if the evening continues, she might want to change into something warmer. You ask her if she’s cold and slip an arm around her shoulder, bringing her closer. Her arm slides around your waist in response, and that’s how the two of you walk up to the street to your car. You’re awash in the closeness of her, reveling in it. So much so that you don’t want to let go, not even when you arrive back at your car.

As you drive back toward her apartment, you ask her if she’d like to go somewhere else. Her response is that she is up for anything. At this point, you’re pretty sure that things have gone just about as well as you could have possibly hoped, so maybe it’s time to bring the evening to a close. You offer to take her home and she invites you up.

Once more, the two of you settle on the couch. You’re not sure if you’re just thinking wishfully, but it seems that you are sitting much closer to her this time around. There’s more talk – talk about families, about growing up, about the sorts of things that make people real – and you just can’t believe how great a time you’re having. But it’s getting late, you promised to help some friends move in the morning and you know she‘s got plenty on her own plate as well. You don’t want to go, but you feel like maybe you should.

You want to kiss her. More than anything, you want to kiss her. But you’re scared. And so you go in for a hug; a nice, safe hug. As you embrace, she turns her head and breathes a kiss onto your cheek. You turn and breathe one onto hers. Suddenly, you’re facing her, your foreheads gently touching, when you finally realize it. She wants you to kiss her!

So you do.

And it’s the sort of soft, sweet kiss that sings in your memory. The sort of kiss that reminds you of why you put yourself through your romantic paces. The sort of lovely, lingering kiss that you’ve been looking for. And it’s her; this wonderful woman who kisses you as if she wants the same things you do. You kiss and laugh and kiss some more. There are jokes and giggles and caresses and, yes, more kisses. You lose yourself in her proximity, your head ringing with joyous disbelief.

The time comes for you to go; you both have busy days ahead of you. You stand up and begin to make your way to the door. She walks with you. You ask her if you can see her again. She smiles and makes it clear that you’re looking at a when rather than an if. You take her in your arms and steal one last tender kiss. With that, you go to the door and let yourself out, blowing her one last kiss as you take your leave.

You walk down the stairs and out into the night. As you walk down her front steps toward your car, you can’t help raising your arms and eyes to the sky, embracing your wonderful evening and trying your best not to feel like the victor at the end of a John Hughes movie. You may even take a bit of a heel-clicking hop as you arrive at your car door.

You drive away from her, ever so reluctantly, as the sounds of Mike Doughty’s “Lorna Zauberberg” stream from the stereo. You glance in the rearview mirror and catch a glimpse of yourself. The smile on your face tells more of a story than words, or pictures, or anything ever could.

And that smile stays on your face for a very, very long time.