rum punch.

I’m late. He’s sitting at a table in a corner, staring at his phone, beer in front of him. I approach and he jumps up with a quick hug. I apologize profusely, but he shrugs it off, and makes room for me to sit next to him instead of across from him. We both smile at that.

“Are we drinking tonight?” I ask. 

“Look, as long as you can keep your hands to yourself when you drink and don’t try to take advantage of me, you can have whatever you like.”

I give him the "Boy, bye" face, and then we order oxtails, rice and peas, sip on rum punch, and talk about work and Selma and Mike Brown, past relationships and hurt and friends and happiness and being nervous about our first date, and being happy it is turning out better than expected. I’m surprised when he tells me that he’s been fidgety all day, waiting for this moment. We are one in the same. 

The restaurant manager stops by our table to welcome us, and comments on our energy. “Glad to see you’re enjoying yourselves.” Our food eventually grows cold from too much talking with animated hands and listening with serious eyes and belly laughs with thigh slaps and a whole lot of “Yeah, that happened to me too!”

“This rum punch isn’t strong enough.”

“You wanna go somewhere else for drinks?”

We walk down the block to a reggae spot and order martinis and whiskey, and he asks me to dance, but my heels are high and I’m clumsy. He promises to catch me if I fall. I beg him off, worried I’ll break an ankle (because I am dramatic like that), and we eventually gravitate toward an old leather couch. Sitting side by side, I am forced to lean my head on his shoulder to hear him over the bass. He holds my hand. We talk about our mothers and our mistakes and it gets serious for a minute, but then he kisses my cheek out of the blue. Says my half of a dimple had been taunting him all night. “I don’t think you know how beautiful you are.” I am not expecting him to say this so I stumble over a thank you, and our eyes lock a few seconds before he suggests we find a quieter space.

We walk another block and turn into a spot with salsa music blasting in one corner, but a cordoned off section with booths, another couple, and bright lights looks inviting. We sit and talk about Ernest Hemingway and Toni Morrison and I feel like after I’d told him about my life full of books a few days ago, he did a little bit of research to make sure he was knowledgeable about the things that I like. He confirms this when I ask. He wanted to impress me and after knowing this, I am trying hard not to grab his face and kiss all over it in gratitude.

When I see that it is 1 a.m., my eyeballs nearly jump out of their sockets. I call a cab as the bar starts winding down to close. He walks me out and the car is waiting almost immediately. No time for a long goodbye. I can tell he is bummed about it, and I am too. We have one of those awkward moments when I go in for a hug but he goes in for more.

“Sir, were you trying to kiss me?” 

“Yes, ma’am. I was.” 

I look at him for a second and then peck him lightly on the lips.

“Is that OK, sir?” 

“Yes, ma’am. It is more than OK.”

I turn to walk toward the cab and trip over a crack in the side walk. “Damn, my lips got you stumbling, girl. You need me to carry you and gently place you into the car?” As he opens the cab door for me, I try to furrow my brow and purse my lips at him, but I fail because this entire scenario is hilarious. We both laugh as I sit down. “Let me know when you get home." His lips land on my cheek before he closes the door, and our date has come to an end. 

When I open my front door, my phone buzzes: “I had a ball with you tonight. Can’t wait to do it again.”