The magic of a first date had long since disappeared.
The gauzy fantasies that once accompanied such an event had been replaced with the reality of dating in my forties: I already knew that there weren't plenty of fish in the sea, and I'd come to believe that there wasn't a "lid for every pot." When folks told me that "he" was out there, I'd simply shrug.
Maybe. But, probably not.
Yet, despite my doubts, on September 7, 2019, I decided to try again.
With a deep breath and tampered expectation, I tugged the bistro's heavy door open. "How many?" the maitre de asked.
As I quickly scanned the room, searching for an approximate version of a face that I'd only seen online, her question was forgotten. There he was.
He'd been seated at the bar's edge. Now he rose to greet me. But, rather than offer my hand for a shake, we folded into each other's arms.
"Kevin. It's so good to meet you."
A superstar walked through the front door of the restaurant and made a beeline toward where I was sitting.
“It’s so good to meet you too, Reiko”, I said while we unexpectedly embraced in a way that people who have known each other forever sometimes do.
As we engaged in an intense debate about the merits of waffles fries versus regular fries, I started sweating.
My mind was multi-tasking – a thousand mental pivot tables recalculating the plans that I had made to remain single as the summer melted into Fall.
I told myself to stay cool – she’s Amazing, but you two just met…
"Where are you from?" She asked.
"A small town outside of Boston, Massachusetts. You wouldn't know it." "Where are you from?" he asked.
Grinning, she pulled a jangling set of keys out of her purse. The key chain read "Boston Strong."
What were the chances?