I remember pulling up to her apartment complex, a run-down set of campus buildings characterized by the yells of Friday night pre-gaming and no free parking spaces. Building eight, the only one with a busted floodlight, A simple text announcing my arrival. Watching the ground floor staircase for eons in anticipation of seeing her again. Blinking twice like the protagonist does in the cheesy rom-coms she loved so much as I shook the disbelief off of me. Dressed in a beautiful black skirt, the thick kind made out of jean-like material, with a light green blouse and shining white shoes. Those chestnut eyes were so big and glowing, hair in a kinetic ponytail, with bright red lipstick to complete the meal.
I stepped out and moved to the passenger side, opening her door for her. "Hi Mariela. You look amazing."
"Thanks! Sorry, I was getting ready when I saw your text."
"It's all good. Did I mention you look great?"
She giggled. I squeezed her hand and shut the passenger door with the largest smile on my face. I should have called Guinness.
Putting the car in reverse, I put my arm behind the passenger head seat. I'd gotten a pump in today at the gym and of course she needed to see that. I may have caught a glimpse and a smirk, but a quick pivot forward right after.
"So," I began, "tell me about your day."
She adjusted her blouse and said, "Mmm, it was all right. I have an anatomy exam on Tuesday so I've been buried in that all afternoon."
Women in STEM and healthcare are my kryptonite. Especially one so cute as this.
"I love that."
"You love anatomy?"
"I love the fact you are taking anatomy."
A pause.
"I mean, it's required for nursing school."
"It's not easy. It says a lot about you."
She giggled. "Like what?"
"Like you don't shy away from challenges. That's a good trait."
I looked over. Another smirk.
"Thanks."
An awkward pause. I usually interrupt these with something pre-saved but the way this girl had me hostage erased my memory bank.
"So Oliver," she asked, "how was work?"
We texted every day for a week after I approached her at the bookstore. It was one of those chance meetings, the rare ones in a man's life, where forces beyond his control compel him to converse with living works of art. I didn't even know the author of the book she was examining in the aisle, but I still told her it was an awesome read and that she should definitely purchase it. A few self-deprecating jokes and some compliments later, and the story continued over text. The age gap did come up briefly, but my fears were soothed when she told me she's dated older guys before. Still, me being 31 and her a junior in college was a little, what? What is the correct word--bothersome? Unethical? Hot?
I didn't know.
"Work sucked. I closed two deals but the air conditioning was out all day."
"Well, at least you got some commission!"
"Yeah," I went on, "and that's why we're going to have a fun night."
"I'm excited."
So was I.
The dinner went by in blurs, as I couldn't concentrate. She'd ask questions and I'd delay my responses because I wasn't there. I was in her eyes. In those beautiful lips, in the gold earrings that dangled and shone in the light, in the smooth hands that cupped her wine glass. They say that quantum physics allows particles to be in simultaneous states at once.
"Will this be on two tickets or one?" asked the waitress.
"Just one, please." I responded.
Ana looked surprised. "Wow. You're paying for my meal?"
I was confused. "Yeah, of course? It's a date."
"No one's done that before."
"Dated some bums, have we?"
"You have no idea."
I paid the check and we got up to leave.
"So," she asked, "where are you taking me now?"
"Do you like to dance?"
"Oh my God, yes!"
"Then you're going to love this."
It was Latin Dance Night at one of the local bars. While it had been awhile since I practiced my bachata, salsa, and merengue moves, Mariela helped me remember. She had mentioned during the first texting night that she loved dancing, and we discussed different music and dancing styles. Both of us loving bachata was the cherry on top, so I had to see what she knew. She didn't disappoint.
Bachata is a sensual dance. A close style, with turns and spins and skin-on-skin contact, bodies slide against each other as the lead guides the follow into the next move. A few songs in and I had her in a spin and decided to go for it--I curled my hands around her forearms and pulled her in close, feeling her lower back as her arms captured my neck. Side to side, back and forth, hips in sync. My right leg between hers, guiding the hip movement. My forehead resting on hers, eyes locked into each other with a certain kind of look reserved for special occasions. I couldn't help but think how this type of connection doesn't occur more than a few times in life.
The song ended and I felt the boldness come over me. All night I had thought about this and the moment felt right.
"Do you want to get out of here?"
A pause as the DJ transitioned into the next song. The salsa beat faded in.
"Yes."
I drove up to my apartment building and opened her door for her, taking her hand in mine and leading her out.
"This is where you live?" she asked. "It's nice."
"I'll give you the tour."
I opened the front door and led her inside.
"Take off your shoes and make yourself comfortable," I said. "Would you like something to drink?"
"Oliver! I had so much at the dance night. Fine, just not tequila."
"Why not?"
"Just...not tequila."
"How's wine?"
"Yes, please. White though, not red."
I remember sitting next to her on the couch, cheers as the glasses clinked together, gulps as the wine went down smoothly. A half hour of conversation passes, discussing all things past, present, and future. Her dreams of working in a children's hospital and becoming a nurse practitioner. My goals of opening my own marketing firm. Our dream vacations and where we'd go together.
"You dance really well," Mariela tells me.
"So you do," I reply. "In fact, it was hard to keep up with you. And I was leading!"
"That just means you're really good. I've been dancing since I was little."
"I can tell."
