I've been back from my outing with Gordon for about a half hour. I ate something soon after darkening my doorstep--the first thing I'd eaten all day if you don't count half of an O'Henry bar and several altoids--now I feel better able to talk about my soggy adventure.

We drove in torrential rain from Baltimore to Washington. From time to time he would ask me my advice on how to get to the area near the National Gallery. Being a non-driver, and completely disinterested in D.C., I really didn't know. I finally had to tell him that I have no sense of direction, and that asking me to consult with him about best routes is actually pointless. This was good natured...not tense or anything, and I certainly wasn't upset with him, but after a while I started to feel like a nimrod.

We stopped in Columbia on the way down because he needed gas. He didn't have any candy or mints so he bought me the aforementioned candy bar and altoids. I thought it was sweet, so he scored points. I am actually moneyless and I expected our day together to cost nothing. Once again, given our official status as friends, the money thing is pretty much defined by the 'every man for himself' code.

But the rainy, soggy sky did not let up so he paid for us to take a cab from the place we parked to the museum (which was farther away than either of us thought, incidentally). Once inside he rubbed my jeans to see how wet i'd gotten... it wasn't suggestive, though it felt nice. The sleeve of his sweater was equally soaked. There we were, two drowned rats, ready to go and take in an art show.

Our stay at the museum spanned at least two-and-a-half hours. We saw several exhibits, and he ate lunch... I didn't have any money, so I ate nothing. At that moment I wasn't feeling the need in an overwhelming way. I was more concerned with my ambient headache (the rain being the culprit, in all likelihood). He kept asking me if I was sure I wasn't hungry. I assured him I wasn't. We entertained ourselved by listening to the conversation of the people sitting behind us.

He carried both our umbrellas while we checked out the giftshop. We looked through several books together...him pointing out various and sundry things to me. In moments like that I tend to get so reticent, so small, and unsure of myself. I am always concerned that he thinks I'm bored with him or something... I just don't feel that I have anything intelligent to say, that it's better to just listen.

So, on our way back to the car, which I've already mentioned parenthetically was really far away, we decided to stop at Starbucks to get out of the deluge. He bought the two of us coffee, so we sat there staring out at the rainy sky, and I felt his mood lowering. We talked about his band, how it came together. He met the guy with whom he started it through a girl he went out with once or twice back in September or October. I remember how I felt about him then, just a few months ago. I was some degree of in love with him, as I am now.

Before that news would have rendered me incapable of going on with the day, and while I registered it and it pricked me enough, I also didn't spin too far from the moment. Then when we finally decided to brave the elements again, the wind picked up, and my umbrella kept turning inside out, so I had to give up on it. I felt like a walking comedy of errors--my shoes soaked, my hair wet, and I was moneyless on a non-date with the man of my heart.

His umbrella, which was holding up nicely, apparently has sentimental value. He bought it in some village in Germany, the name of which I can't remember. He took the opportunity to tell me that years later he fell in love with some girl from that same village, but she didn't like him, "so, of course it didn't go anywhere."

I wanted to ask "what girl was this?" but decided against it. I thought the information might hurt me, and I want to stay in my decidedly take-it-in-stride phase.

I actually feel more hurt now than I did at that moment.

Our ride back was pleasant but mostly silent, and I felt like the least compelling woman on the planet.