I’m sitting on a park bench literally twiddling my thumbs, waiting to see Louis. He’s asked to meet in a neighborhood far removed from my happy little corner of the city, and while it’s beautiful, I typically prefer to explore new places alone. I like finding unexpected turns and scribbling random thoughts about street art, people-watching, or that pigeon that looks like it’s plotting my murder. When I don’t have a notebook, I usually just talk to myself about it. Out loud. Because I’m that crazy person. It’s not often I find someone who’s known me long enough to withstand my rambling and wait for me to make my point.

Jo is the only person I’m comfortable traveling with thus far. She understands my verbal processing. She finds it amusing, and I find her ability to bite to the point refreshing. But it’s taken fifteen years to get us to this point, and we’ve been living together now for two. I’ve since found it much easier to find comfort in myself rather than wait for someone else to catch up. I suppose that’s not very forgiving, is it?

I check my phone. No message, and I’m still fifteen minutes early. I watch a restaurant across the street and zero in on two young women sharing lunch. They remind me of one of those younger iterations of myself. A friend once made a confession that has stuck with me for years. We were sitting eating pizza and drinking Stella out of giant pint glasses and she paused,

“Do you want to know something weird?”

“Always.”

“Sometimes I get sad when I’m driving and I look in the car next to me. Whatever that person is doing, I realize that that’s someone that I will likely never get the chance to know. And then I’m overwhelmed by the sheer number of people in this world living unique lives with emotional experiences that I will never get to know.”

I’ve always lived on somewhat of an emotional high wire--I’m either incredibly affected or deeply apathetic, but I rarely find myself longing to feel the swings of others. I feel at odds enough trying to hold myself together, and yet here is someone who feels so deeply that she needed several days to get over the death of a beloved celebrity and still she gets sad at the idea that there are others feeling all of the feels that she will never meet. I am constantly inspired by my friends’ capacity to embrace their feelings rather than try to keep them in check. When did I stop thinking it was okay to feel? When did I start relating restraint with strength? Does it not take so much more effort to be vulnerable?

My phone buzzes.

From Louis:
That seat taken?

I startle and look up to see him standing just a few feet off, mischieviously typing on his phone and pretending not to notice me.

To Louis:
Creeper.

“Says the woman so distracted she didn’t notice me wavin’ for two minutes.” He ambles over and takes the seat next to me. I laugh and quickly grow uncomfortable, realizing I’m experiencing a strange familiarity with a man I don’t actually know at all.

“So what’s the plan?” I brush some hair out of my face. I want to do the same to his, not because I want to touch him, but because he has two pesky strands that keep falling in his face and they’re blocking his eyes.

“No clue. Never been here before. Walk and see?” I must appear confused, because he stands and holds out his hand, “What? Never just picked a random spot and said ‘why not?’ before?”

I don’t take his hand. It’s a little too early for that for me. “No,” I shrug. “At least not when I’m meeting up with a stranger whose intentions aren’t entirely clear…” I don’t want to offend him, but I do need to be cautious. Single woman, big city, too many episodes of Law & Order: SVU, and all that.

He put his hands up in a defensive gesture, “No, you’re absolutely right. Forgive me. Let me be clear: My intentions are to take you to lunch as thanks for your kindness and maybe convince you to laugh again,” I raise my eyebrows and he nods, “That last part is admittedly selfish, but I just liked it so much the first time, I thought I’d give it a go.” It’s getting difficult not to trust him.

“Okay, then,” I stand, “We should probably pick a direction.” I smile but notice him flinch slightly. He quickly recovers and starts walking west down the boulevard. I quickly catch up and make out what appears to be a used bookstore a couple of streets up. I make a note to visit again soon.

After about a half hour of walking with some small talk, I start to wonder if lunch is actually happening.

“Why are we doing this, again?”

“Because I get the feelin’ you probably need to loosen up, and not havin’ a plan is good for that.” He throws the comment over his shoulder like we’ve known each other for years. I want to feel indignant; I probably should feel indignant, and yet somehow I get a perverse pleasure out of his cocksure attitude.

“I should be offended by that,” I quicken my stride to match his.

“Good thing for me that you’re not,” he smirks and bumps my right shoulder with his left, not too difficult a feat as we match fairly closely in height.

Louis is only about three inches taller than me, a change since I normally go for guys who have to bend over to hear me correctly. I’ve never seen a man walk so comfortably with his hands in his pockets. It’s as though his arms are slightly too long and have found a better resting place. It also gives him a constant air of remaining nonchalant. It’s bothersome to know my insides are wringing themselves raw and he’s probably reviewing last night’s football scores in his head. I feel another bump on my shoulder,

“D’you do that often?”

“I’m sorry?” I break from my reverie and look up at him. His eyes are quizzical but his pace hasn’t slowed.

“You were doing some deep thinkin’, it seems. But you were also starin’ a bit,” he smiles and raises an eyebrow, “so maybe it was daydreamin’?” There’s a lilting combination of tease and hope in his question.

“Ha,” my blush will, apparently, be accompanying me to all of my interactions with Louis, “Sorry. I do that a lot. It’s so I don’t just spout off everything running through my head. Trying to internally filter. Don’t take it personally,” I smile.

“Damn; I was kind of hopin’ it was personal,” he winks. It comes so naturally to him and it turns my stomach to mush. I should start drafting my eulogy for Jo. This man may be the death of me and I don’t trust her to use her own words at my funeral. Here lies Stephanie, killed because of a lethal combination of winks, a British accent, and sass. We find it ironic that she passed from something she seemed to embody so much herself, and yet it always appears to be the surprises that lead to our demise. “You’re doin’ it again,” Louis calls over his shoulder as he jogs ahead to open a door for me. I look up and notice the sign for a taqueria. Small, cheap, and smelling delicious. My kind of place.

“Ah!” I verbally admonish myself, “I’m sorry! I’ll try and stop. Promise.”

“No worries; I consider it my personal challenge to keep you entertained enough that your brain stays with me, now. After you,” he smiles and gestures through the open door. The air conditioning is a welcome break from the summer heat that finally hit. I’m going to have to start differentiating between the chills I get from the air conditioning and the ones that come when Louis’s fingers accidentally brush against my elbow as I pass him. I notice the pressure increase as the pads of his fingers secure themselves around my right arm, his right arm forming a small loop across my back as he stands to my left. Apparently it wasn’t an accidental brush. “S’okay?” he looks down at me. I’m not sure if he’s asking about his arm around me or the place, but both are fine by me.

“Great.” I smile. He nods and walks ahead of me to the host, his arm leaving my back and my body missing his contact. I’ll have to tell Jo I wasn’t wrong. This man radiates heat.

---

“So we’ve covered work, schooling, past-times...family?” Louis dips a chip into a bowl of salsa.

“Got ‘em.” I reply.

“Ha, nice one. Tell me about them?”

“Oh! You wanted to know about them, I see.” I attempt to steal a chip and he smacks my hand away.

“Naughty,” he smiles, “free food has to be earned.”

“Isn’t that kind of what the bottle of wine was for?”

“No, dear, let me explain: food is what we eat to live. Wine is what we drink to get drunk. Is it different where you’re from?” His eyes do the grinning this time and I can tell I’ve met my match.

“Actually, no. We practice this little thing called hospitality where I’m from. My parents raised me to be polite when someone does something for you instead of holding it over their head interminably.” I grab a chip anyway.

“Did your parents also teach you to use seventeen syllables when one would do?”

There go my cheeks again, “No. That was a personal choice.”

“I like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Indubitably.”

Right. Silent personal question: Is it inadvisable to kiss someone’s face off during a first date? Will make note to ask for future reference.

“Whatchya thinkin’?” He holds out the last chip. I take it.

“...that I’m glad you didn’t have cash on you this weekend.” That’s about as bold as I’ve ever been. I’m preparing to curl into the fetal position if necessary.

He laughs a cheerful rumbling tumble of a thing, “Brilliant,” he claps his hands together, “Me too. Where next? Bookstore?”

“How did you know?” I’m perplexed by this man’s ability to read me.

“Because you said. We passed it and you said: ‘Mental note: come back here.’”

“That was out loud??”

“It was. Cute too.”

“Ahhh I need to be examined.” I bury my face in my hands as Louis slides out of the booth.
I feel a slight pull at my elbow, “Nah, love. But I’m findin’ it an interestin’ challenge makin’ heads or tails of what you’re really thinkin’ and what you’re accidentally sayin’” I stand up next to him and hang my head in mock shame. “Chin up, s’been a while since someone kept me on m’toes.” He holds out his hand.

This time I take it.

Notes