Monday, August 08, 2005


I don't believe in love at first sight. It's a cliché, a desperate wish. Women who believe in such urban legends are all surface. I'm much more. Men who fall in love with me need time to reach past the fabulous exterior. Time spent sounding the depths of my personality, listening to me talk about myself. My favorite things. My not-so-favorite memories.

Love on a first date is another story, one interspersed with blushing glances over plates of pink ginger salmon tartare with steamed watercress and sesame oil. Your hand grazing mine, lingering hesitant. Diffused heat prickling my skin under the freckles. Unspoken knowing.

I had felt traces of this connection from the moment you slid into a neighboring stool at the martini bar. Words slipped out of your mouth like green olives, smooth and glossy with gin. "Hey, Red." Friday night and we were both alone, drinking. "Make it dirty. On second thought, make it filthy." You were talking about more than martinis. I could feel the spark, and I knew it had absolutely nothing to do with how soused we both were. It was lust and passion, yet somehow, more than just sxe. Suddenly I understood what they meant by "whirlwind romance". I felt dizzy already.

We exchanged names and blog addresses. You slurred, "When can I see you again?" I seized my opportunity: "Tomorrow night. Dinner." I named the most expensive restaurant I could think of, with no intention of picking up the tab. Call me selfish or a bitch (you won't be the first) but it's my favourite first-date test. A man who won't pay for the first dinner won't run fifteen blocks to the twenty-four-hour drugstore that carries my favorite brand of facial tissue because I'm crying about fat camp at four in the morning, either. I don't want to waste my time.

Luckily you passed the test with flying colors. Actually, it was only one color: green. As you pulled crisp, beautiful hundred-dollar bills out of your Italian leather wallet, I felt the unmistakable stirring of emotion. I felt tender beneath my still-tough facade. I wanted you to be there for me, always.

You sat quiet as I talked, your expression one of deep thought. When your eyes closed I knew you were imagining us together, cuddling naked in the velvety dark or taking long walks with Hobbes in the rosy morning. I could picture you at my door, smiling proudly with your hands full of small boxes, robin's egg blue with white ribbons.

Finally, you yawned, a clear signal -- it was getting late. On the cab ride to my apartment you came to life. You leaned in closer and kissed me, your lips hard and insistent. I surrendered as you moved in, your eager hands leaving a trail of dewy sweat up my inner thigh. My sweet moans filled the cab, but the driver didn't mind; you tipped him a twenty.

When I woke up this morning there was a swirl of cotton in the place you fell asleep last night, right after I finished blowing you. You must have had to go to work early - very early; it was five a.m. It was sweet of you not to wake me up when you left, but I wish you had. I forgot to give you my number last night, and you forgot to leave me yours. Still, neither of us could forget the unique beauty of what we shared. And I know you'll find me again, because when you fall in love on a first date, none of the usual rules apply. You don't need to call me. You'll show up on my doorstep one day, hands filled with blue and platinum, hoping to surprise me. But I won't be surprised at all.