first date

It was autumn, afternoon. The trees intertwined in orange tones, spreading across the streets their warm and noisy carpet. I looked at the golden sky, and before its natural indifference, I asked myself what would come out of that day. I entered the café. 3:50 PM, right on time. I arrived 10 minutes early, just as a precaution. The waiter came to the table and asked if I wanted anything. I said I was waiting for someone. 10, 15, 20 minutes passed on the clock and nothing. I looked beyond the window and asked myself where she might be. My heart was pounding, but I would never admit that. A hand touched my shoulder and I almost jumped out of the chair, but soon, seeing to whom it belonged, I immediately regained my composure. She approached to greet me with a kiss -- pleasant perfume, vanilla with a citrus touch and a woody, sweet base — and I hurried to pull out her chair. She sits down, and there we are, the two of us. The first advances are cowardly. I ask if she arrived well, she if I waited long. We both lie, saying no. I won't deny it, while I was waiting, I almost got up from the table to feed the ducks in the nearby pond. She, on the other hand, certainly spent half an hour changing blouses in front of the mirror. Anyway, lying is the first truce we grant each other, a cordial gesture of chivalry, I would say. Meeting a stranger in a café is an act of almost naive courage. One carries the terrible temptation to exude disinterest, to seem charming and non-dependent, and at the same time pretend interest so she doesn't lose hers. And the food arrived. The warm steam rose from the bowl, the espresso cup steamed in the corner of the wood, and outside autumn spilled through the window. She picked up the cup and blew on it, losing her balance and almost letting the coffee fall onto the main course, a gesture so ridiculously human -- fragile, clumsy, and real — that I end up laughing, while holding her trembling hands to prevent a disaster. We turned into two surrendered goofs. She confesses she was afraid of having nothing to talk about. I confess I rehearsed three jokes on the way and forgot all of them. She laughs. I laugh. In that mutual laugh, something melted away. We started talking about silly things. About the noise the neighbor makes singing Greek music in the shower. About the funny scene outside of a guy sitting on a bench with a pot of stroganoff for no apparent reason. She tells me she is afraid of elevators. I say I sleep with the hallway light on to this day. She said she drank coffee with sugar and cream, for me it should necessarily be pure. We got into a heated argument, because one must face the bitterness without shortcuts to scrutinize the complexity of coffee, and that masking it with sugar or milk would be the childish refusal to accept the drink as it is. I sustained the thesis tooth and nail for a good five minutes, until she pointed at my cup and observed: "That over there is a cappuccino with whipped cream." I looked at the white foam, then at her, and swallowed hard. There was no reply. Only the silence of someone who had just been contradicted by his own table. When the cups emptied and night fell, we went out for a walk in the park next door. The wind cut the skin, but there were embers in my chest. She stopped in front of the lake, by the ducks, turned around and asked: "It was fun, wasn't it?" I nodded. She took two steps ahead before noticing I had fallen behind — "What is it?" "Nothing — I just wanted to see what you're like when you think no one is watching." Raising an eyebrow with a sideways smile, she said: "Careful, you might like what you see." She then kept walking toward nowhere. I, behind, felt that adult life had finally given me back a little of the naivety that was stolen from me. Watching the ducks move away from our steps, somehow and with slight embarrassment, I had realized too late that, in fact, I already liked it.