Conversations came and went between us, as if everyone was waiting for an embarrassing incident to occur.
Emma spoke calmly. An art teacher, she loved antique bookstores, hated coriander, and had a theory: you could tell a first date was going to be a disaster just by the way a man treated the waiter for the first ten minutes.
I burst out laughing, I really did.
And that seemed to bother Mark.
But the most tense moment came when Brad, one of the men sitting at the table, leaned back in his chair, smiled, and said:
“So, Adam… be honest. Is Emma your type?”
Everyone at the table froze.
Emma simply lowered her eyes.
And at that moment, everyone was waiting for my answer.
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“Emma Collins, would you like to go out with me willingly?”
Her lips slowly stretched into a smile.
“Intentionality is important.”
“I thought so.”
He glanced out of the restaurant window. Mark and the others were still near the bar, trying not to look, and failing miserably.
Then he turned back to me.
“Yes,” he said. “But not tonight.”
That took me by surprise.
He noticed and smiled kindly.
“The evening is ruined.”
I laughed.
“RIGHT.”
“I don’t want our first real date to hinge on me being underestimated in public and you behaving well in front of everyone.”
Her voice softened.
“I want to know what it’s like when no one is watching.”
That was the best answer he could give me.
Because she told me she wasn’t dazzled for a single moment.
He wanted something concrete.
Something that could exist in daylight.
“Coffee on Saturday?”
“First at the bookstore,” he replied immediately.
I watched it.
“What?”
“You work in a bookstore. I teach art. If you take me somewhere boring, I’ll lose all respect for you.”
“It’s pressure.”
“Those are my criteria.”
Smiles.
“First the bookstore. Then, a café.”
“All right.”
A car stopped along the sidewalk.
Emma looked at her.
“It’s mine.”
I didn’t want him to leave.
It was absurd, after a strange dinner and a chocolate cake served with two forks.
But I also appreciated that he left in his own way.
Before getting into the car, he turned around.
“Adam.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for what you said.”
“You don’t have to thank me for not being cruel.”
“No,” he replied. “But thank you for being specific.”
Then he left.
I stood there under the shelter, the rain soaking my jacket, with the distinct feeling that Mark had, by chance, accomplished something useful in his life.
Saturday arrived more slowly than expected.
Emma showed up at the downtown branch at eleven o’clock, dressed in jeans, a rust-colored sweater, and a denim jacket with paint on one sleeve.
She didn’t look like she was dressed to impress.
She had regained her usual appearance.
That’s the first thing I noticed.
CONTINUE READING…>>
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