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It would seem that I was ready for that first meeting with Ed. The one where he walked into the espresso cafe on Dewa Sita street, noticed me, but wasn't sure I was alone, so stalled a bit before choosing his table. The one where he asked if my food was good, if I was alone and if I'd mind if he joined me, so quickly it was as if his words melded into one long sentence: "If food good and alone I'll sit." This was our introduction. A week later, I was distracted, romance far from my mind. My projects were done and that was all that mattered, I thought. I headed out for dinner that night with sloppy hair, morning make-up and darkened circles under my eyes, intent on getting to bed early. I had a mouthful of tofu and beads of sweat on my nose when he approached my table. I wasn't cool. It took a while to get used to the flow of his London/Edinburgh accent as I learned those important first-meeting particulars. I surmised that he was a well-traveled art gallery owner, marketing/advertising virtuoso, radio station volunteer, cheese quiche lover and dance theater group board of directors member. We glazed through conversations about our work, families and passions, keeping it light. I liked him. I liked the short, distant gazes that preceded his questions of global consequence and the way he ran his hand through the small section of hair that kept flopping in front of his forehead. I liked how he waited until I was surely finished with a story or point, then paused for a moment to formulate an eloquent response. I think I liked his steadfast eye contact, but at times felt myself pulling my gaze aside for fear he could see too much. Given my physical state and mental exhaustion, however, the idea that this charming man would find me remotely attractive or intelligent at that point seemed dubious. So, for the first couple hours of conversation, I stayed engaged but safely removed. But then something happened. A simple thing, really. He leaned toward the table, weight on his hands, while making a point about something or other. His broad shoulders, glaring clavicle and prominent jugular -- the objects of my longtime fetish -- leapt out at me. I had to resist the temptation to reach across and stroke his neck. For the first time since the demise of my relationship, I had an intimate urge and it felt good. Later, we had a clumsy goodnight, highlighted by my extremely amateur, "Well, maybe I'll see you around ..." But he was quick, better at this stuff, and cut me off with a "Want to get together tomorrow?" The next evening's choreography improved. It was smooth and comfortable and set in a quiet cafe with appropriate lighting, tropical drinks and cool breeze. I was showered and maybe even smelled good, while he wore his afternoon tan like an accessory. Our bodies were relaxed, our conversations were more personal and when we left the restaurant and walked straight past my hotel on the way to unspoken nowhere, it became obvious that the night wasn't over. His 10 p.m. inquiry as to whether I'd like to stop by his place to see the silver he'd purchased for a business venture was welcomed with a smile.
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