Twelve

It was hot that day, so I ordered a pineapple smoothie.

I played with the straw nervously after we shook hands, choosing a small, black table outside, under the awning. Inside, lithe girls with long, straight hair and white aprons stood behind a pastry counter, their bangs lifting ever so slightly in the breeze from the fan.

He was balding. He had a goatee, and he didn’t have a job. He didn’t have a car, he had just broken up with a long-time girlfriend.

We talked—or rather, I talked. This was my first date. The ad I placed a week before netted plenty of responses, several men wanted to meet me based on the four lines of newsprint that ran in the city’s free weekly tabloid.

He walked to the cafe. I didn’t find this out until later, one evening while we spooned on the bed in my attic apartment.

He was quiet, I talked to fill the space between us. Parents, schooling, likes, dislikes … I wish I remember what we said.

What I do remember is writing my phone number on my business card, using a purple Sharpie I pulled out of my messenger bag. I don’t remember what I wore. I don’t remember what he wore. I don’t remember much from that day, except for the feeling that the rest of my life was about to begin, all thanks to a meeting of two lonely hearts, brough together by chance.

I wrote the ad in an act of desperation. I was lonely. I was tired of waiting for a man to find me in the stacks at the public library, over the produce in the grocery store.

Tall, slender SWF, 26, seeks SWM to cure her cynicism. Do you revere books, adore the stars, have a tender touch? Try to charm me, I dare you!

Today, 12 years ago, a stranger sat with me under a crooked green umbrella. Tonight, that stranger will kiss me goodnight.