a drink?”
“No,” she says. “I think I’ve had enough tonight.” She curls threads of chestnut hair behind her ear and stares at the dancers still swaying on the floor.
“Okay. Fair enough.” My palms sweat. My heart pounds. “What if I just sit here and drink for you while we talk.”
“Sure, okay. But I’m getting ready to leave.”
I take another sip. “Or I could just get your phone number and see if you’re interested in going out sometime?”
She turns to look at me, her hazel eyes bright in the darklight. “Boy, you just cut to the chase don’t you?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I think it’s the alcohol talking. I’m usually the shy guy you’d never meet.”
“Sure you are. That’s okay. You don’t have to lie.” She opens her purse, pulls out a notepad, writes a number on it, tears a sheet off, folds it, and passes it to me. “Here. Here’s your number.” I read it aloud.
“Is this real? It doesn’t sound like a real number. There’s too many fives.”
“Guess you’ll just have to call it to find out,” she says as she stands to leave. She gives me a playful wave and slips away.
I polish off my drink and play the scrap of paper between my fingers much as if I were twirling a flower.
Walking home, I pause before a house’s bay window and listen to a piano echoing from within. The sound, soft and distant, haunts the quiet night. I lower myself to the curb and close my eyes in silent appreciation of this moonlight sonata.
Saturday when Kaitlin arrives for our date, we stroll through a downtown redolent with the smells of summer. We walk, we talk, and a block away from the swirling black waters of the Cape Fear River and amid the thrumof nightlife, we dine. I like that I can now order wine, so as we settle into our sidewalk table, I request a bottle. It is quickly brought for me to taste, and, pronouncing it good, glasses are poured, and we toast.
“To our first date,” I say, raising up the wine.
We drink. The bread comes. We eat. The salads arrive. We eat. And when the seafood lands, we eat, refilling our wine glasses all the while.
“The check, sir,” the waiter says, presenting the billfold. And as I count out several twenties, I ignore the great sum spent, telling myself I’m buying happiness.
On our way out, I pause in the door’s threshold and mention a nearby coffee shop, adding that it’s poetry slam night.
“Let’s go!” she enthuses.
So along Front Street, we squeeze between bodies swaying down the avenue in summer intoxication. Clusters of pedestrians form moving walls along the sidewalk, and Kaitlin and I must dodge from one side to another, stepping off the curb and then back on as we go. When we enter the coffeehouse, Kaitlin reserves a table while I order. Then I sit, as a patron reads poetry from the small stage. This young poet muses about love, and although I recognize his meaning, I am glad that it is not something I have written. When he nears the end, his voice crescendos and feedback squeals out from the speakers, deafening me. Then the young poet gives a slight bow to say that he is done. Kaitlin and I smile politely, and we clap. Another poet takes the stage. She reads a poem where she was gifted a dead father for Christmas, and it is sad. Sort of. She steps down. We clap. Another takes her place. I refill our coffees.
Later as we walk back to my house, our conversation carries us along. I tell her about Ana; she talks about Ray, her former boyfriend. I tell her I come from a small town; she says that she does, too. And so it goes, while the moon rises in the east and glides overhead. I stray from any talk about my hemophilia or HIV. There is no handbook for people with HIV, and there are no rules for how I should date, but I know that this, our first date is not the one for such a serious topic. I fear my HIV would ruin any hope I have with Kaitlin.
On
“No,” she says. “I think I’ve had enough tonight.” She curls threads of chestnut hair behind her ear and stares at the dancers still swaying on the floor.
“Okay. Fair enough.” My palms sweat. My heart pounds. “What if I just sit here and drink for you while we talk.”
“Sure, okay. But I’m getting ready to leave.”
I take another sip. “Or I could just get your phone number and see if you’re interested in going out sometime?”
She turns to look at me, her hazel eyes bright in the darklight. “Boy, you just cut to the chase don’t you?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I think it’s the alcohol talking. I’m usually the shy guy you’d never meet.”
“Sure you are. That’s okay. You don’t have to lie.” She opens her purse, pulls out a notepad, writes a number on it, tears a sheet off, folds it, and passes it to me. “Here. Here’s your number.” I read it aloud.
“Is this real? It doesn’t sound like a real number. There’s too many fives.”
“Guess you’ll just have to call it to find out,” she says as she stands to leave. She gives me a playful wave and slips away.
I polish off my drink and play the scrap of paper between my fingers much as if I were twirling a flower.
Walking home, I pause before a house’s bay window and listen to a piano echoing from within. The sound, soft and distant, haunts the quiet night. I lower myself to the curb and close my eyes in silent appreciation of this moonlight sonata.
Saturday when Kaitlin arrives for our date, we stroll through a downtown redolent with the smells of summer. We walk, we talk, and a block away from the swirling black waters of the Cape Fear River and amid the thrumof nightlife, we dine. I like that I can now order wine, so as we settle into our sidewalk table, I request a bottle. It is quickly brought for me to taste, and, pronouncing it good, glasses are poured, and we toast.
“To our first date,” I say, raising up the wine.
We drink. The bread comes. We eat. The salads arrive. We eat. And when the seafood lands, we eat, refilling our wine glasses all the while.
“The check, sir,” the waiter says, presenting the billfold. And as I count out several twenties, I ignore the great sum spent, telling myself I’m buying happiness.
On our way out, I pause in the door’s threshold and mention a nearby coffee shop, adding that it’s poetry slam night.
“Let’s go!” she enthuses.
So along Front Street, we squeeze between bodies swaying down the avenue in summer intoxication. Clusters of pedestrians form moving walls along the sidewalk, and Kaitlin and I must dodge from one side to another, stepping off the curb and then back on as we go. When we enter the coffeehouse, Kaitlin reserves a table while I order. Then I sit, as a patron reads poetry from the small stage. This young poet muses about love, and although I recognize his meaning, I am glad that it is not something I have written. When he nears the end, his voice crescendos and feedback squeals out from the speakers, deafening me. Then the young poet gives a slight bow to say that he is done. Kaitlin and I smile politely, and we clap. Another poet takes the stage. She reads a poem where she was gifted a dead father for Christmas, and it is sad. Sort of. She steps down. We clap. Another takes her place. I refill our coffees.
Later as we walk back to my house, our conversation carries us along. I tell her about Ana; she talks about Ray, her former boyfriend. I tell her I come from a small town; she says that she does, too. And so it goes, while the moon rises in the east and glides overhead. I stray from any talk about my hemophilia or HIV. There is no handbook for people with HIV, and there are no rules for how I should date, but I know that this, our first date is not the one for such a serious topic. I fear my HIV would ruin any hope I have with Kaitlin.
On
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