The first date

I love a first date that goes well...  you know the kind, a date where everything meshes, conversation is good, she touches my hand or my leg, laughing at a joke, playfully letting me know that she's interested.  It's exhilarating.

The drive to the restaurant, making witty conversation, reading body language, learning about her.

She's pretty, prettier than I first thought (and I thought she was beautiful), and engaging and lovely, so lovely.  She tells me her story, I notice which pieces she chooses, wondering what was left out and why.  I tell her mine and she listens intently.  I open up more and let her see the real me, the vulnerable me, the me that only a few people have ever really seen.  I let her and she doesn't laugh, she only opens up more in return, sympathizes with the hard parts of my life, doesn't judge (that may come later, when she's pissed about something, but for now it, too, is lovely).

We order, eat, share our food, talk some more.  As we leave the restaurant, I put my arm around her and she moves close in to me.  I feel like I am the most powerful man in the world.

I drop her off, she invites me in, we talk, she snuggles up to me, wants to be held, so I hold her.  We stop talking, but we still communicate heart to heart.  She wants to be kissed, to be loved, so I kiss and I caress and I love.

Time to leave, too soon, fucking time, never stops...  I get in the car, pull out, see her standing alone in the doorway, her eyes plead with me to stay, but not this time, not now. 

The drive home is long, I think of how she felt, her lips, her body against mine.  I catch a whiff of her perfume, her lotion, her hair, clinging to me like a needy lover and I revel in the smell of her, the memories of her next to me and her need to be held, me doing the holding.  That first kiss, her soft skin, the smell, the lovely lovely smell, and I drift off to sleep and dream again of her.