Maybe even smitten...

He had been alone for quite a while now, several months, maybe almost a year. He’d worked hard to forget the date his ex had moved out – he didn’t want to remember it, didn’t want to sad-celebrate it every year.

She had said that she couldn't take living so closely together, that she needed some space, that she felt smothered... that she didn’t feel like he ever really heard what she said, that he didn’t really know who she was, that he had this idea of a person that she wasn’t… that he tried to protect her too much and make all the decisions that she wanted to make for herself… that she needed to make her own decisions for a while and that she would let him know… That. That. That… and that she’d call soon.

She never did. He’d waited a long time.

And now… now here he was, waiting for another woman.

He stood near the gate of the restaurant’s patio, trying not to pace, not wanting to go in and sit down. He didn’t want to miss the earliest possible glimpse of her walking down the sidewalk.

They'd been sort of friends, just acquaintances, really, for years, just floating along with it all, saying “Hey, how are you?” and suchlike when they happened across one another. She was, even after all the time he had known her, still a bit of a mystery. He really only knew her because she was friends with a few of his friends. It had been such a surprise when she asked him the other day as they chatted on the street corner by the bakery, "Hey, would you like to go out sometime, you know, a date-ish sort of thing, maybe?"

Well, he thought, I wonder why she asked me out? She did say date, wait, she actually said date-ish… what does that mean? What is date-ish? Things are a date or they aren’t a date… Do I want to date someone? Someone who tacks ‘ish’ on the end of perfectly fine words? But it was kinda cute. Woah, is she a person who would get offended being called cute? Maybe. Yeah, I think she might. Maybe. No, she would, I think. She seems more like a one-of-the-guys kind of girl than… wait, that’s probably even more offensive. I wonder if she likes me or if she just wants to get to know me better… or thinks she might like me. I think I might like her. I know I like being her friend. I like talking to her…

Gawd, he thought, I'm babbling inside my own head... get yourself together, man. No way should I be nervous, I've never been nervous about talking to her before. I hope she likes the food here... maybe I should claim us a table... the patio is filling up quickly what with the tables being so few now and so spread out. I’m just glad we don’t have to still wear masks if we are outdoors, glad that the pandemic is getting over so we can go out to places and hang out with people, even if we still need to be a bit careful… I wonder why she asked me out. Gawd, I hope this doesn’t mess up our friendship...oh, this is too weird.

And I'm still babbling.

I wonder what she does for fun. I wonder why she wanted to go out. I think I should get us a table... What if she doesn't show up? Surely she will be here… but where is she? We said six, didn’t we? Oh, gawd, did I mess up the time? No, I’m sure we said six. I wonder what she likes to eat. I hope the food is good tonight, it’s so hit-and-miss here. Why did I suggest this place? I hope…

He'd been staring at the sidewalk as his thoughts went round and round, rattling around inside his head, making him more nervous every moment… Stop, he told himself, just stop. Trying to get some sort of control over his racing thoughts, he glanced up and down the street and took a deep breath, trying to slow his brain down a bit, and…

There she was, walking down the sidewalk, zipping her backpack closed and swinging it up on her shoulder with practiced ease. He felt a weird little frisson as she saw him and sent a little smile his way. Maybe she was nervous too.

“Hi. Sorry that I’m late. At the last minute, I knocked over a jar of paint in the studio and it made a huge mess… as you can see,” she said, waving her hands at her legs and feet. Looking down, he could see great splatters of a deep red, nearly purple paint, decorating her pants and shoes. She had a splash of it on the back of her left hand and wrist and one tiny dot of it on her left cheek that he didn’t think she knew about. It made him smile.

“You’re an artist? Why didn’t I know that?”

“Well, yes. I’m working on it anyway. ‘Art is a practice…’ I keep practicing. Or it keeps practicing on me… that’s probably more like how it really goes.” Her smile as she said this made it clear she was including him in some subtle in-joke, making him part of her crowd, part of her life outside the brief connections they had had in the past.

He felt all his nervousness fall away… this was going to be a fabulous evening… he could tell.

“Would you like to sit down?” he asked her. “There are a few tables left out here.”

Even though his late grandfather would be frowning at him, planning to give him The Lecture when he got him alone, he managed not to do the presumptuous chair-pulling thing when they got to the table… his ex had hated it when he did that.

Sitting in the evening summer sunlight, they talked about things they liked, and did, and hoped for, and worked for, and loved, and hated. Well, she talked, and he listened… He learned that she worked two jobs “to feed my art supply habit.” She said the jobs were part-time and she didn’t make much, but other than food and rent and art supplies, she didn’t need much either. She had just finished grad school last year, getting her MFA. She could teach, she said, but she would really like to earn her living as a professional artist. She said she knew it was not easy to do that at any time, and now it was particularly complicated and chancy, but if it didn’t happen, that would be okay too – she was happy just to be making art. He didn’t say much about himself, didn’t say much at all, in fact, other than to ask her enough questions to keep her talking about her life and her art. There was something about her that the more she talked, the more he wanted to hear her talk. She wasn’t egotistical or arrogant, but she knew exactly what she wanted and where she wanted her life to go. She told great stories. He was mesmerized, maybe even smitten.

Okay, he thought, I really like this woman.

“Gosh, I’ve been talking this whole time. It’s your turn, tell me something about you. Anything. Just keep me from boring you with more of my stories,” she grinned.

Grinning back at her, he had to think for a moment, trying to find something interesting to say about himself. Just as he started to tell her about the three-state hiking trip he made with his brother right after college, she jumped up. “Oh, no! I forgot to get the parking meter number… I need to enter it in the parking app so I don’t get a ticket… you know, that whole starving artist bit. I’ll be right back.”

Glancing at his phone, he realized they had been talking for nearly an hour. He waved to the waitstaff, and thinking of the splashes of paint, he smiled and ordered them both a glass of wine. It arrived just as she came through the patio gate and sat down at their table.

“I order us each a glass of wine, a glass of Merlot…”

"Oh," she said, picking up the glass and swirling it around, looking at him through the deep, deep red, nearly purple liquid, seemingly fascinated as it momentarily clung to the side of the glass while she swirled it. "It’s lovely, and thank you, but I don't drink wine, actually I don't drink alcohol at all."

The small, serious look that crossed her face as she watched the movement of wine in the glass... well, it made his heart sink. He'd done something pushy by ordering wine for her. He made assumptions, made the decision, presumed, just like he always did and with the same damn results. When would he ever learn?

He’d put her in an awkward position… He was about to start apologizing, not that there was any excuse for being such a bore. He was furious with himself, embarrassed, and incredibly sad too, with an achy feeling in his chest that was making it hard to breathe. This was going to be a mortifying evening, he could tell.

He wanted to find a way to make it easy for both of them, a way to call it off and go their separate ways… hopefully without any lingering uncomfortableness. He wanted them both to be able to laugh it off the next time they ran into each other, not to look the other way and pretend that they hadn’t seen the other, not to think “oh, gawd, there he is… there she is… now what?”

In his distress he very nearly missed the sly grin that grew on her face… totally bemused, he could not for the life of him figure out what would bring about such a mischievous look in this particularly uncomfortable situation. “What…?”

With a sneaky little wink at him, she unzipped her backpack and pulled out a small sketchbook… and a brush? What…? He burst out laughing when she dipped the brush in the wine and started painting with it.

Within moments, with a very few lines, she had… painted? sketched? a small blackbird taking flight, captured at the very moment when the first downbeat of its wings lifted it into the air. She carefully eased the page out of the sketchbook and gently fanned it back and forth to dry the brush strokes made with wine. He thought it exquisite. So simple, yet so expressive, so alive… like her, he thought, just like her. Relaxing a bit, he picked up his glass of wine, waiting to see what this woman would do next to surprise him.

As he sipped the wine, she took his other hand and slipped the painting into it, giving his fingers a gentle little squeeze as she did.

“Here, I made this for you.”