For whatever reason, I’ve been asked twice within the last couple of months, “What is your idea of a perfect date?” And while naturally, my brain would reroute to some ‘Miss Congeniality’-like answer, just to be a smartass; I was laying in bed at about 3 a.m. last night and I thought about it. It’d go something like this…
I was walking around my apartment at 11:46 p.m. on a Thursday while on the phone with her. Towards the end of our phone conversation, I glance at my calendar and asked her, “What are your plans Saturday?” She quipped back, “I don’t know, you tell me.” Taken aback, slightly, I smirked on my end of the phone and told her, “Be ready at 6:30 p.m. Wear whatever you’ll be comfortable in. I’m going to knock on your door no later than 6:35 p.m.”
“Where are we going?” “6:35 p.m. Saturday.”
“But wait, what are we doing?” “Wear whatever you’d like.”
“C’mon! Tell me.” “I’ll see you Saturday.” *Click*
As I was getting ready Saturday, I started getting dressed and couldn’t seem to find the tank top I wanted to wear underneath my shirt. Sure, I had four other black ones I could wear, but that one fit me just right — like it was made for me — and I couldn’t find it.
I grabbed another black tank top, ironed it, put it on, grabbed my button-down, ironed it and put it on. As I went to grab my shoes, I saw the black tank top I was looking for; the one I put aside because I knew I wanted to wear it. I changed out of my button-down and tank top, threw the other one on and put my button-down back on. I ran down one final checklist: “Place is vacuumed and dusted; I’ve got my wallet, keys and phone; gas in the car; I’m good.”
I drove to her house, walked up to her door and knocked. She opened it up and she literally took my breath away for a quick second. She’s wasn’t wearing anything special — a nice top, jeans, booties, a light jacket, hair in a ponytail — but man, those eyes and that smile. Truthfully, I wouldn’t have cared if she were wearing sweatpants.
I told her how beautiful she was, kissed her, and went on our way.
I drove to the local restaurant, where my buddy was bartending. They had a special on Saturdays for a stuffed artichoke, a favorite of hers. Her eyes lit up when she saw the menu. “I love artichoke!” I raised my hand to my mouth, trying not to chuckle too loudly to myself, enamored by how happy she was from seeing a food item on a menu.
“What?” she asked. “I know,” I smiled back.
We carried on a conversation for a few minutes, then I saw her eyes re-direct like a dog that heard a car engine start from afar. I knew the waitress was walking up behind me. I could judge by the size of her eyes how much closer she was to me.
Three slices in, the stuffing fell in her lap; equally spread out over the edge of her top and the thigh of her jeans. “Shit!” she quietly blurted, before grimacing. “Ooh, sorry!” She wiped herself clean, but there was a stain that now looked like two when she stood and her top rose up to her waist.
The rest of the dinner was delicious, and the combination of the restaurant’s dim lights and candle at our table accented her eyes exquisitely. The conversation hit every pit stop from the impending snowstorm, to which Billy Joel song was our favorite, to who was on Saturday Night Live that night.
We paid our bill and got up to leave. She kept scrubbing her jeans, to a point where I walked over, put my hand over hers and gently pressed it against her thigh. “Stop,” I joked. “You look beautiful,” and kissed her.
She put the napkin down and we headed out.
The snow had started falling while we were inside, hours before the storm was supposed to come down. I asked if she wanted to go to my place, since the roads were starting to get icy. As she quickly mulled it over, I bribed her with ‘10 Things I Hate About You’ and popcorn.
She was sold.
We got upstairs and she asked if I had a change of sweats because the stain was still bothering her. “Right dresser, bottom drawer; pick anything you’d like.” By the time she was out of the bathroom, the popcorn was done and the movie was loaded up on Netflix. The snowfall painted a beautiful view out of my window.
I invited her under the blanket I brought out for us and she snuggled under my arm as the movie began to play. Somewhere between Heath Ledger telling Julia Stiles that he digs her, and Stiles telling him that he’s “not as vile” as she thought he was, I looked over at her.
I placed my index finger under her chin and lifted her lips towards mine. She started moving closer. I leaned in to kiss her, cupping the side of her face with my hand. The room went silent, at least in my head it did. The movie was still playing, but I had escaped into the moment. The only thing I could hear was her lips releasing from mine before they locked again.
She kept moving closer to me, before climbing on top of my body. She started to kiss me again, her arm gliding along my chest. As she placed her fingers in the side of my hair, I could feel the tickle of the cotton sweater against my cheek.
I reached for her hairband and carefully pulled it off. She ruffled her hair with both hands to loosen it up before letting it fall down to her shoulders. I told her how beautiful she was, again. I really couldn’t take my eyes off of her.
She grabbed the side of my shirt and pulled me up to her, kissing me while still clenched on my shirt. She started leaning back, and I slowly started leaning on top of her. I pulled the blanket over us and proceeded to kiss her neck. I slid part of the sweater off her shoulder to kiss her before working my way to her collarbone, her neck, her cheek, and her lips.
We made love for the first time that night, and it was unlike anything I had ever experienced. When people talk about the difference between having sex and making love, that was what they are referring to.
We watched whatever was left of the movie and laid down together. She put her head against my chest and rested her arm over my torso. I wrapped my arm around her and rubbed her arm until she fell asleep.
I don’t think I’ll ever experience something like that again.