Motorcycle Guy showed up at my stoop for our mini date with a bottle of Torrentes (that’d be white wine), chilled stemware, and a fruit and cheese plate. It was a darling arrangement of meticulously cut pineapple, Asian pear and cheese in pretty patterns and layers, and red pepper halves “for color,” all sprinkled chopped pine nuts. Oh yeah, and the yellow paper napkins. If he weren’t so damn heterosexual he’d be so damn gay.
We sat on the brick steps surrounded by Roman’s potted marigolds and basil while he refilled our glasses (mine first, every time), we toasted (he knew to make eye contact when we clinked) and nibbled on his artisan snacks like the civilized stoop sitters we were, he in his crisp linen button down and rolled up khakis, me in the same goddamn yellow flowered shirt and Old Navy shorts I’d been wearing all summer.
I finally lured him up into my apartment to meet Bart (really, he wanted to meet him), first stopping in at Roman’s to show Motorcycle Guy his salt-water fish tank (really, he wanted to see it). Josh the sea horse had died earlier today, and Roman was busy dicing him in the trash disposal. I was horrified. So was Motorcycle Guy. I loved that we felt the same way about julienned sea-horse corpse.
Sitting across from Motorcycle Guy on my couch, we just talked and talked. And talked. Coulda talked all night, he said. And I coulda stared at him all night. He’s so dreamy with the cutest gap in his front teeth. I kept wondering what it would be like to kiss him.
He hugged me when he left, and I’ll definitely see him again—he conveniently left his dishes in my kitchen. And he talked about an apres-work sail. It’s happening slowly, but it’s happening.