"Sure," said Hannah, and my heart leapt into my throat. She reached across to my table and picked up a notebook from beside my laptop. She tore off a corner of paper from one of the sheets in the back and said, "Give me your number."
It taken a little more than two weeks of 'casually' bumping into her at the local coffee shop, gradually testing the waters, to work up the courage to finally ask her out. I sat by her even when there were plenty of open seats. We made desultory conversation about what we'd done in college. She asked me to watch her things when she got a refill, instead of the girl two tables away. And finally, on a blustery spring day in late April, she'd chosen to sit by me, and I took my chances.
We agreed to go out for dinner the next night, Tuesday. Saturday might have been more customary, but Hannah was going out of town all weekend, and more importantly I didn't want her to change her mind. Plus, I suspected Hannah didn't want me building up The Big Date too much in my head.
She may have had a point. Apart from a single drunken one-night stand, I hadn't had any kind of love life since getting dumped the semester after graduation, and I couldn't even remember the last time I'd gone on a proper date. Work just ate up too much time. So I was nervous to begin with, and her tacit refusal to give me her phone number or her address (so I could pick her up from her apartment) looked to me like I already had two strikes against me.
Work, as usual, kept me occupied until the next evening, but I made sure I left myself time to drop everything off at home and get ready.
As it happened, I was almost ten minutes late meeting her at the coffee shop—'our' coffee shop, I guess. She was waiting for me, and didn't notice me at first. Hannah's style was understated and modestly casual, but I could tell her outfit was carefully chosen. Her sandy blonde hair was braided on either side, framing her face cutely. She had traded her glasses for contacts, with eyeliner only slightly darker than usual around her glowing hazel eyes, and just a trace more lipstick. Although her clothes were just slightly out of fashion—deliberately, I suspected—they were quite neatly pressed and gave her figure a beautiful line.
Hannah turned her head, scanning the room, and when her eyes landed on me, she brightened visibly, with a warm, happy smile. My nerves melted away, and I said, "Hannah, you're looking beautiful."
"Why, thank you," she said. "And you're looking quite handsome yourself, Ben." Before I knew it, she pulled a bright green yarn cap over her head and wrapped her arm around mine. We walked out into the cool air together, strolling down the hill into the old market toward the restaurant I'd suggested. She rested her head against my shoulder as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and from that moment it was definitely a date.
After the waiter left with our orders, Hannah took a sip of wine and smiled nervously. "Look, Ben," she said. "I'm sorry that I'm so guarded. It's just I actually need to tell you something."
"No, no," I said. "Not at all. You're really nice. I think—" I stopped. "Sorry. I shouldn't explain your feelings to you. Go ahead and tell me what you want to say."
She cocked an eyebrow slightly—and a beautiful eyebrow it was, too, her eyes twinkling curiously in our table's candlelight. "It's just a ground rule I have. You seem like a nice guy. But you should know I don't want to be in a relationship right now. I'm okay with actual dating, like going on dates. Taking it slow. I just don't want to rush into anything. I'm sorry."
Then Hannah briefly—very briefly; I could tell she just wanted it off her chest—explained that her previous boyfriend of a little more than two years had dumped her by basically telling her he had other plans on Valentine's Day. Hannah felt as if her life had crashed and burned, and she had to start over again. She was only eleven months out of college with a degree in art history, working two part-time jobs, and trying to freelance as a designer.
The conversation went from there. I had similar problems putting together work as a web developer after I graduated three years ago, and the job market hadn't been a friendly place in a long time. We discovered our views on aesthetics in design were quite compatible. Hannah spoke with passion and authority about the hidden language of imagery, media and form. Her razor-sharp mind followed my ideas toward implications I had never considered, and made even the most arcane notions seem vibrant and relevant.
When the waiter asked us the second time if we wanted any dessert or another bottle of wine, I glanced at my watch and realized we had been talking non-stop for well over an hour.
"Oh—we're going to miss the movie," she said.
"That's okay—I don't need to see another sequel," I said. "What do you think about another drink?"
"I'm a little light headed," said Hannah. "How about a walk?"
Outside the restaurant, we wandered through the brick-paved streets where the last snows of spring had shrunk into corners not touched by sunlight. It was brisk, and cool. Hannah had her arm around my other arm now, and as our conversation resumed I paid no attention to the lefts and rights we took. Talking to her was wonderful.
About halfway down one block, outside a small brownstone, Hannah stopped and turned to face me. "Well," she said. "This is me."
I felt my face drop. I realized I didn't have any friends like her, and I desperately wanted to spend more time with her. "Oh," I said. "Well..."
I leaned down to her awkwardly, and she seemed surprised. Hannah pulled back for a moment, and then stretched up to give me a quick peck on the lips. We stood looking into each other's eyes. She was waiting for me to speak.
"I had a lot of fun," I said. "I really love talking with you. So, I guess, good night—"
"Hey," she interrupted. She put her arms around my waist and hugged me toward her. "I said this is my place. I was hoping we could have another drink, look at some art folios and maybe kiss a little more."
Hannah's apartment was smallish but comfortable, filled with books on every available surface. The walls were covered in prints of Impressionist watercolors and semi-erotic studies of nymphs dancing around water. There was a very expensive tripod in the corner, looking out of place next to the second-hand furniture.
"Do you do photography?" I asked. "That's quite a tripod."
She nodded. "Some, but I'm just borrowing it. Whiskey's on the table there."
I cracked open the twist-top and Hannah produced a few coffee mugs with ice.
"Sorry," she said. "I don't have any short glasses and I don't have any soft drinks."
"This is just fine."
"Come in here. I want to play you some music."
I followed her into the bedroom. We sat on the bed and talked for another hour, sipping liquor, talking about Surrealism and listening to slow guitar jazz. My thoughts were swimming after a full day of work and worrying about the date, and it was a relief just to be sitting so sedately. Gradually it dawned on me that I was alone with a woman, in her bedroom, for the first time in a very long time.
I took her drink and set it on the nightstand alongside mine. I simply said, "I want to kiss you."
"Oh yeah?" she said. Hannah rolled over and lay on her back. "What makes you think I want you to?"
She had changed into blue jeans and a heathered green t-shirt with a deep V-neck collar. I had tried not to steal glimpses of her cleavage as we talked, but now her breasts fell to her sides. She was braless. Her nipples crinkled happily under the shirt.
I just leaned back over and lay beside her. I stroked a strand of hair away from her hazel eyes, and she looked up at me. Her hand reached under my arm and rested on my back, beneath my button-up shirt, caressing my skin.
Hannah was quivering as our eyes locked. In the next moment, she moistened her lips with her tongue and dove upward toward my mouth. Our kissing was long and full and deep.
Her hair and skin had a gentle, welcoming scent of vanilla and cocoa butter. As she caressed my cheek, I became self-conscious about my stubble; I hadn't shaved since morning. "Sorry," I said.
"No," she said. "I love your stubble. It feels...manly."
Now my hand had found its way from her hips to the small of her back, and I pressed her toward me, to feel her firm tummy up against me.
"Slowly," she said. Then, as we kissed and nuzzled, she began opening my shirt, button by button. When my shirt hung open, Hannah pulled up my white undershirt, and her nimble little fingers played across my abdomen.
"Nice abs," said Hannah.
We lay side by side, our t-shirts raised so that our skin touched. Her eyes were full and glistening in the low lamp light, devouring me. She wasn't tired at all—she felt full of hot life as she kissed me, caressed me and watched me do the same to her.
"Now," she whispered. "I unbuttoned you. You unbutton me."
I slid my hand away from her warm back, along her side—she flinched slightly as my fingertips grazed a ticklish spot—and caressed her right breast and nipple outside her shirt. My thumb traced lazily along the crease of her areola.
"Is this slow enough?" I asked, whispering.
