DREAM DATE

Late afternoon light played delicately across the greystone walls of the historic building. A woman stood opposite, a small street separating her from the path that would lead to ornate, wooden double doors. She inhaled deeply, standing squarely facing it.

Cool leather pressed smooth against fingers from the bone white, Parker Clay clutch cupped in hand. Her arm lay down the length of her body, the hand coming to rest casually against the top of a thigh.

If someone had been watching from afar, their eyes would have scanned down from that hand to a slit in a dress the color of deep emerald. A slit that, admittedly, came just a bit too high up the thigh to be appropriate for a late afternoon cocktail hour. She didn’t care. The skirt flared out just above the ankles, giving way to low, strappy, open-toed Chanels. Both articles of clothing swiped from a vintage shop in downtown LA earlier that year. Just because she worked from home in sweats didn’t mean the girl couldn’t dress. And this dress felt fantastic, like silk and fluid and sex and power all wrapped around her.

The v-shaped neckline dipped where delicate straps wrapped up and across an open back that dipped low. A thin tie of the same material and color as the dress accentuated the waist. From her wrist not gripping the clutch dangled a thin gold bracelet. Out of habit, she brought her fingers to nervously play with the stud of a diamond attached to her earlobe while her teeth delicately chewed on the bottom half of painted red lips. The earrings were raw, ethically sourced diamonds that she’d bought herself just that year; thank you very much.

These were small details only noticeable to an active onlooker. Not, for example, by the occasional pedicab drivers huffing their way past, pulling tourists from the hotel district over to the many restaurants that dotted streets on the other side of the peninsula.

She continued staring.

What wasn’t noticeable to any observer, was the inner monologue and emotion weighing on her nervous mind as she stared at the aged stones of the building, hesitating to wonder about the hands many years ago that placed these scattered stones into formation--hands that no longer held to this earth.

With a deep breath, delicate Chanel heels clicked across the small street, through stately, ornate iron gates into a small courtyard. Following the path to the left along stone pavers the color of sand and earth, she reached out her right hand, bracelet dancing on wrist, and grasped the smooth brass of a door handle and turned. The right half of a set of large wooden doors gave way and swung outward. She walked, the silk of her dress swirling and gliding gracefully around ankles and legs, into the darkened interior.

It’s hard to verbalize what years of both perseverance and expectation inspire in the mind of someone realizing a moment. This evening had been in the works for years. She had stared back at the image of her current self in the mirror earlier that night as she dressed. A glass of Merlot keeping her company as she applied her makeup -- light and easy. Kardashian wasn’t her look. She’d emptied the glass just before leaving, tipping her head back to get every drop of the purple, tannic liquid. Blackberry and spice and just a touch of smoke sliding over the tongue. Liquid courage.

The restaurant had been on the ‘best of’ lists for years. The chef--young for his profession and wooing every food critic in the country with bountiful and beautiful locally-sourced foods--was as good looking as his food was. Seafood plump with freshness, heirloom beans, and vegetable varieties long forgotten were selected at just the right time to make his guests swoon. It was THE place for dinner in this town.

While the interior foyer was dark compared to the brilliance of natural light, the kitchen sparkled with activity to the left of the entry and, when the host led her through a narrow hall, the room opened up into bright natural light from large windows placed generously into the stone walls. Intimate tables were spread through the room atop an aged, smooth wooden floor and laid bright with white linens and china.

She sat down, running her hands over the linen topped table and breathing a sigh of relief. The chair opposite hers was empty. She smiled as she settled into her chair.

Her mind wandered back over the past few years. The devastation of divorce, the struggle of enterprise, and the gradual restoration of self awareness and emotional intuition. Friends had been lost these past few years. New ones made. New passions discovered and others left behind. Dreams had been set down, but new ones had been emboldened. It had been a tumultuous, extravagant few years. And yet here she was.

She had anticipated that this evening would come, even if nervous now. But as she sat there, looking around the room, a sense of self and certainty settled on her. This was where she belonged. She had poured everything into creating this moment.

She felt a presence at her elbow and looked up, a smile creasing her face, cheeks flushing with what the evening would hold. After all, she had been dreaming and planning of this for years.

“Will anyone be joining you this evening, ma’am?,” the waiter asked as a champagne flute was placed with precision in front of her.

“No. It will just be me tonight.”

Because now, after this journey, she knew most of all that the best date in the world was herself.