I am on a first date. We meet at a restaurant--sorry, a trattoria--and have a drink in the bar. That is all we have agreed to, and we both have our cars. It's good to have an escape clause.
But neither of us wants to escape. When I’d met the lady, I’d admired her auburn tresses and kind, spirited eyes, but now I am being drawn to her easy laugh and obvious warmth. I ask for a table in the dining room.
During dinner, the level of ease and comfort increases. All my stories are greeted with sincere laughter, and she has a few of her own to tell. Then the conversation becomes more serious--the marriages, divorces, relationships--all the detritus of the lives of two people looking for a new chance at happiness.
The mood lightens again with arrival of the dessert menu. The sharing of a dessert seems like a small step toward intimacy. I notice that she seems to be stealing glances at my upper arm (I am wearing a collarless long-sleeve knit shirt). “Ah,” I think, “she likes. The time spent in the gym is paying off.”
She smiles and reaches across the table, touching me just above the elbow. “You look plenty strong enough, you know. You don’t need to do this to impress me.”
“Huh?” I touch my own arm just above her hand and feel an unfamiliar bulge. I reach up into the sleeve and pull out--a sock! I have been victimized by static cling!
We both dissolve in laughter, and she has the good manners to say that such things happen to her all the time. The “stuffing” incident tears down any pretensions that either of us might have attempted, and the date ends with a long hug and not one, but two kisses.
The next morning, I match up the sock-that-was-lost-but-now-is-found with its mate. Maybe next time, I decide, I'll use them both.
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1 comment:
Sock in the sleeve. Nice. I thought it was a sock in the pants, my how times have changed.
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