The day we met the first time, we didn’t really talk but /there was something about you that made me ask you out/ you must have liked me, since you’ve asked my friend for my number/. “Maybe we could grab a beer or a coffee sometime?”
A few days later, we meet at /the train station/bus stop/bridge next to your house/ and you ask me /how my day was/how I’m doing/ to what place I want to go/.
I like your /voice/hair/lips/ and while were walking down the streets I try to absorb more of your appearance. You’re taller than I remembered.
I wonder what the people we’re passing think about us. Do they assume that we’re a couple? That maybe, we’ve met in spring, and then got together in summer. That you’re my big love and I’m your first? That maybe, we fought this morning, about the things that we always fight about, and then decided to go out, to end the day on good terms?
I like that thought. As if the wide space between our minds caused by the unfamiliarity of your presence next to mine, the unspoken expectation of the evening, is a secret that only the two of us share. A first, tender connection between two strangers.
We arrive at the bar/café/. You take /a beer/a coffee/out your pack of cigarettes/ and I order a glass of the least pricy white wine. In the next hours I laugh/too loud?/ at your jokes, and you tell me about your job/family/wild party life you seem to be strangely proud of. I can feel myself starting to /zoom out/really like you/.
A forecast of what we could be.
I feel your presence comforting me like a lullaby for the night, as we walk back to the train/bus. You enjoyed the time with me, you say. You /pull my hair back/ grab my waist/ lean in/ and our lips softly touch. I /pull away/ smile/.
“Maybe we could do this again?”
All these nights, all these evenings are blurry memories, washed together in one, single picture. The first encounter of two possible lovers, the first expression of an untold romance.
I used to love this special kind of newness, this sudden and youthful connection on first dates, swirling in the heated air of bars and coffee shops while you get a first glance into someone else’s life.
But over the last months, I could feel myself stumble into some kind of routine of meeting new people. What was the point, when at the end of the night/week/ month I’m on my own again? It’s not the single life that bothered me, but the haunting question of purpose. Isn’t it all just a waste of time really?
But then, it was you, who was waiting at the train station. Boy tell me, how have you convinced me so fast, that this time, everything will make sense a lot longer than usual?
