The Date

The poet at the microphone was in fine form. The audience responded with approbation. She was galvanized. Her body took on a rhythm of its own. Her poetry flowed in rhythmic beats.

I tried hard to throw myself into the excitement of the night, but Richard was sitting so close to me and it was difficult to ignore his presence. This was our first date, and I wanted to make a good impression. I resisted the urge to lightly run my fingers along the bulging muscles on his arm. I knew it wouldn’t be ladylike.

He glanced over at me and smiled. “You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you? She is really a commanding poet.”

I nodded in agreement. I didn’t want him to know how much I was actually enjoying the view at my side.

Without missing a beat, the poet changed gears and launched into a feminist rant. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. This could ruin a date rather quickly. I glanced furtively at Richard, unwilling to see the sneer I was sure I would find on his face. He was deeply absorbed, nodding his head in seeming agreement to her lyrics. I had to ask.

“You’re not offended?”

“Who, me? No!” he was emphatic. “I think if more women would advocate for fair treatment in the workplace and in homes, things would change more rapidly.”

Wow. Is he for real? Warmth flooded my heart. I reached over and held his hand, and he entwined his fingers with mine. His hand felt right; just enough roughness to suggest he worked outdoors a lot, but still took time for finesse. I had known Richard for years as a friend. He had been there through various relationship dramas in my past. I am pretty sure I had told him that I never wanted another man in my life. He had always been comforting, and had never made any move before so I had no idea that he was interested. When he asked me for a date, I was flabbergasted.

The poet switched gears again. This time she was sensual. The audience simmered in appreciation. Was it my mind, or did he just squeeze my hand tighter? Did someone light a match in the midst of our palms? Must be, for the heat was gradually suffusing my being.

The crowd gave a standing ovation. Richard and I joined the throng as everyone made way to the exit.

“Oh, that was really good,” he gushed.

“You sure? You really like it?”

“Of course! I keep telling you I enjoy poetry” He looked at me with mock hurt. “You act like you don’t believe me.”

I rolled my eyes at him and leaned on the bonnet of my car.

“You know,” he said idly, “I write poems too.”

“Seriously,” I squealed. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I could make one up now.” He was slowly strumming my arms.

“I dare you.”

“Christina,

You with the brown guarded eyes.

He who taught you beguile,

Must have been senile.

Forget that for a while;

Let me make you smile.”

I must have floated, for I was suddenly touching clouds. I knew I had been caught. By the time he bent his head towards mine, I had forgotten my resolve to be ladylike.