the city, late september, at night

We saw him while we sat on the corner of St. Paul and Eager; he was headed to the City Café to meet us. He seemed to be looking at the car, but we couldn’t be sure. He seemed to recognize us, but again, I couldn’t be certain.

Crystal dropped me off in front of the restaurant and went to find parking. I was standing there in what is arguably the most flattering shirt and the most flattering black, flare-legged pair of pants I own (they create the illusion of a longer, more lithe look on me), cutting a striking figure.

Once it was established that sitting outside was not going to happen (who can resist sitting outside on these gorgeous, fading summer days?), we settled at our table and put in an order of Calamari and a bottle of Australian Shiraz. I noticed him admiring the shirt and that was it right there. All the payoff I’d ever need. For the rest of my life, whatever else happens, I’ll know that I made the right decision about that blouse.

Not having seen him since the last real day of August, I was just a bit nervous, and there were one or two moments of not having much to say, because the only thing to say, really, is: I want you. Do you want me?

And I wouldn’t have said that, because there are a few conversational footbridges between where we are and that declarative/interrogative.

Lovely buffer and all around charmer that she is, my sister breezed in and regaled us with tales of all the men that hit on her yesterday—all owing to the classic red scoop neck sweater of mine she borrowed. Once the Shiraz was uncapped, there were no more slight snags. I had to remember to keep my hands to myself, not touch his arm to punctuate too many sentences. At the same time, it was important to not be so over vigilant that I came across stony. The goal was to be real and keep it real, but to never let that make me sloppy with desperate energy.

So. When our legs touched briefly under the table, I didn’t fight it. And I allowed myself one unapologetic arm touch.

The appetizer and wine portion of the program was smashing. To keep our progressive dinner progressive, we made quick work of the check, and headed across the street to Sushi at Minato.

During this briefest of jaunts, he complimented me on the wine selection and touched my arm/back as he did. There was such a current.

I should mention here that C kept pointing out how lovely I looked, kept asking Mr. Close Encounters if he liked my hair cut, and didn’t he love my shirt. At one point, I said “She gave me this shirt for my birthday.” He smiled, understood her compliments of me in the context of her own self-perceived fashion genius. Actually, he didn't smile. He laughed generously.

I knew I wanted a Zentini (green tea martini), so I ordered one promptly. C and Mr. CE shared sake, but he thoughtfully asked our server to bring a third cup in case I decided to join them. I did, eventually, and it was so much sweeter than the last time I had some.

He seemed amused, happy to be there.

As we reached the car, the lingering hug I’ve come to anticipate from him began on cue. A friendly kiss on the mouth, then he folded C into our embrace. And we didn’t let go for a long time…