All my feelings of calm had evaporated by the time the doorbell rang around 7:00. I thought my aches and nausea  were from nervousness, but I realize now that I had started to come down with a real bug. At least I think so. Just as I was about to get the door, B. opened it from the outside. She seemed surprised that I was coming to the door, as if I had barged in on her barging in. I thought about saying something about privacy, decided to keep things on a positive note, and returned her hug.

She looked worse than I remembered. I tried hard to focus on the good rather than the bad. I wanted to break down my wall by avoiding easy criticisms, so I tried to find things I really liked about her appearance. I still liked her walk, as I mentioned, which is a clumsy, purposeful strut. I wanted to like her soft skin, but her arms were covered with light brown hair that gave me the willies.

On the way to the restaurant, I tried to talk about science fiction, but she’s more of an English major type. She told me she’d read The Hobbit and Fahrenheit 451, and then she changed the conversation to Jane Austin. B. loves Pride and Prejudice. She was furious with the most recent film adaptation, which I’d never seen (and never will see–I can’t stand chick lit). She went on a long diatribe about how the film supported everything Jane Austin herself was making fun of. Still, B. was enthusiastic about something, and that nearly made it very nearly enjoyable.  At least it kept the pressure off me for coming up with stuff to say.

She was still talking about the various adaptations of Jane Austin’s novels when we were seated at a little table by the window. My legs were wobbly and I felt dizzy. Before I knew it, we were talking about wine. That is to say, she was talking about wine. For me, there are two kinds of wine — tolerable (red) and bad (white), but I never got the chance to say that. B. was going on and on about how some kind of wine used to be underrated until some movie came out, and now that type of wine has become overrated. I was beginning to think we had nothing in common.

During the meal, I was distracted by three thoughts:

  1. What would happen with my credit card?
  2. What would happen at the end of the date?
  3. Could I fart without noise or odor?

As I continued to hold in my gas, this last distraction became my only distraction. My stomach began gurgling, my cheeks were clenched, and I started sweating. B. started sending food back. First, she sent back her goat cheese tarts because they were “undersalted” and “not acidic enough.” That made no sense to me but the server took it back without question. Then she sent back her overcooked pasta and her undercooked chicken. All my food was fine.

I think we were at the restaurant for a little more than an hour, but it felt like five hours. After dessert, I couldn’t handle my stomach anymore, so I asked to be excused. I waddled into the bathroom and spent about ten minutes working out all the gas that had built up, half-praying and half-swearing. By the time I returned to the table, B. was signing the bill. I protested, but she waved me off and said I could get the next one.

It’s possible that I wasn’t paying attention to the conversation in which we agree to go back to B.’s apartment to watch a recording of Pride and Prejudice. I think it’s more likely that she planned on doing that all along and just forgot to tell me. B. had some A&E version of Pride and Prejudice on her DVR, along with about a dozen other “Masterpiece” recordings — she said something about “Jane Austin month.”
As we entered her two-bedroom apartment, my heart was pounding. We sat down on her couch — which I would have sent back for having too many pillows — and she said “Make yourself comfortable” as she put my arm around her. At random times during the boring movie, she would turn her face very close to mine and tilt her head — I think because she wanted me to kiss her. I was nauseous again for some reason. Maybe it was my sickness, or maybe it was nervousness, or maybe it was something else. Finally, I did the bravest thing I’ve ever done in my whole life.

I kissed her.

I’ve kissed (or been kissed) a few times, but they’ve always been pecks. I have never in my life been on a couch making out with a girl. My mind was whirling out of control during this time, maybe ten minutes.

“Open up,” she said. I didn’t know what she meant.

“Let your love out,” she said. I didn’t know what that meant either.

After a while, she stopped me and said, “We can’t have sex until the fifth date.” And then we started kissing again. I wondered if the fifth date thing was her rule, or the rule of the book she was reading or what, but I have the feeling that if we have a fifth date, sex is not only possible, but mandatory.

More later. I’ve got to get ready for my interview.