New Romances, Part III

August 15 – August 21st

A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh…

And then sometimes, they really aren’t those things. Not when at least, you meet the right person.

I’m writing this now, nearly two months from the day that I really knew I came upon something wildly special.

I can recall specifics of his profile now, and even our subsequent chats; I’m feeling those same, warming feelings of comfort and intrigue as I did when we first matched. I have disabled (and now deleted) the CMB app with no urgency to yet again renew my profile– probably never. Because as luck might have granted, I met someone through the battlefield of modern dating.

He was in Law School, 6’5″ (good lord), and had an interest in bar hopping and cooking meals at 3 A.M. His first photo was taken besides whom I assumed were his parents and that struck me in a good way, someone who didn’t get weird or have some complex about photos on a dating site featuring their parents. On his religious preference he listed Christian, and it did worry me a little at a chance of him being more conservative than I was looking for. For a second, I thought he might not have been a fit. But everything he said stuck to me, all different than the other profiles. Sure, no guy on CMB is the same, but that’s how I felt with each match. Until I saw the 3 A.M. cooking, professional In N Out stalking, being a bit of a smart-ass confessing, and getting lost exploring San Francisco.

Sometime later in that afternoon, I got an alert from my phone:

– Hi Paris! Would you like to hear the story about how I thought I could fly when I was a little kid and split my head trying to jump from the kitchen counter?

No pickup I’d ever seen before. But different, different is what count.

-Well you pretty much just told me the whole story [laughing emoji]

– But damn, it does sound intriguing.

This was the beginning of a beautiful, odd friendship between two weird souls discussing fatal incidents of childhood, who had worse scars, and then onto our families, his excitement at becoming an uncle again any day now, then more about each other, the city we both lived in and loved. It all seemed effortless, honestly. With the dentist, we had passionate discussions about literature and careers. But with Him, we were passionate about everything. And it felt like we’d nearly been talking about everything longer than those first three days.

I remember that weekend leading up to our first meeting. Getting to know each other’s schedules we rescheduled meeting up three different times, but still the same place. Talking about books he brought up the brilliant suggestion we grab drinks together down at Vesuvio, the fabulous old haunt for Beat writers. Soon it wasn’t about where or when, but the occasional “can’t wait” with each phone message. I’d been going out twice on the town with friends from work, and he to hang and see Suicide Squad with close buddies, and throughout the long evenings dancing and sobering up on 4 glasses of water and watching men pick up girls from the mezzanine of Harper and Rye we were still messaging, apart but unified in the same isolation we were feeling out on the town. We still hadn’t met– and we couldn’t wait until the next afternoon.

We met an hour earlier than we were supposed to. I was done with all my Sunday chores and I was bored. We both weren’t about playing games, the sooner the better. And hey, if we weren’t a fit, at least we’d end the date early and I’d be back home before dark. He was very receptive to the idea, more so now since I mentioned the parrots of Telegraph Hill, and how I was hearing them now outside my own apartment in Pac Heights. Already catching the 1 and getting off at Chinatown to walk, I felt like I wore the wrong dress, the wrong shoes, not enough curls in my hair, no preparation to get the high squeak out of my first impressions voice. Uncertain of what to expect, and vastly unprepared. Not trying to get ahead of myself, all I needed to focus on was at least getting through the doors of Vesuvio and scope him out, lest I awkward miss his lanky figure in that low-ceiling place. I was turning the corner from Grant onto Broadway when I double checked his text to see if he had beaten me:

– So bummed. It’s $6 to go to the top and they’re going to close soon 😦

I called him straight away. Besides finding out that he had misinterpret our last chat as meeting up at the top of Coit Tower, there was also this: a voice, deep but smooth and filled with notes of jolliness, the kind only people who laugh a lot would possess. I heard his voice for the first time and somehow I wasn’t nervous anymore.

Sometimes you get those feelings that only make sense in stories, the instant rush, the flush in your face–even a faint tingling . You hear them in songs, you think it’s just fiction. But all stories come from somewhere, some real feeling. It’s been three months since, but those feelings are still here. I can’t explain all of our weird inside jokes, or our first date from meeting each other halfway at Washington Square. I won’t share much about how we wandered among the starry streets of North Beach and our first kiss at the bus stop he waited with me at, or the subsequent dates where each one seemed just as unique and effortless as the last. How he and I both love Arctic Monkeys and can slip in Godfather quotes during our conversations, or talk about obscure historical architectural achievements in stupid little things like Corinthian columns. I can’t break down the date that did it, the one where I was so excited to dress up like Ingrid Bergman in the wake of our movie date to see Casablanca at the Castro Theater and he surprised me with dinner and dressed in his very best slacks and button up– not quite Humphrey Bogart with his build, but rather Jimmy Stewart. Both of us seeing the movie that only months ago, I had already watched alone at the Castro Theater, alone on Valentine’s Day.

I can’t explain any of those things to my readers, but these feelings from those memories, that he, gave me– the feelings are enough. The smile is enough. The smile, three months still grinning, is strong and words don’t need to be dragged on to really make those feelings known, or shine through. Just meet him, some day you will. Some day is where I hope we’re heading to.

…As time goes by.

At the end of this series, I begin with an adventure, and end with a love letter.

 

 

 

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