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.
