Thursday, September 4, 2014

“I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman and you’re Richard Gere,” she explained. “Except I’m not a hooker.”

“Also, I don’t stuff gerbils up my ass,” I added, helpfully.

“Wonderful,” she said.

A few days before I met her–she who had said Popeyes would’ve sufficed for a first date–we discussed why I chose Roy’s.

“Why so fancy?” she asked.

“Because you gotta treat a woman right, you know?”

And what a woman. More than a month later, I still remember moments from that first date with complete clarity. I remember how she saw right through my subpar simulation of the Asian arts.

“Um, I don’t think your chopsticks are supposed to cross like that? Not that I’m judging,” she remarked.

“Thanks, Mr. Miyagi.”

I remember ordering way too many appetizers, now a ritual to which I stubbornly cling, much to her bemusement, and I remember holding forth on why the rice at Roy’s was so desiccated: “It’s because they hand-dry each and every grain with a hairdryer.”

Overpriced, shitty food didn’t matter that night, though. We were there–in that booth, with that dress, that hair, that voice–and that was enough. Stayed until the place closed. And I wouldn’t have traded the evening for anything.

If I were to travel back to May and impart some dating wisdom to my younger self, I would share the following: from Cheshire, to follow your heart; from the Professor, to remember how it all began; and from Love Yoda, to leave my expectations at the door. These three pieces of advice have served me well, time and again.

We’re going out tomorrow night. To where or what, I don’t know yet. She’s far more spontaneous than I am, so I’ve found that playing it by ear is usually the better course. It’s a departure from my typical bag of overthinking and copious short-term planning. Tabula rasa, I suppose–and a slate gladly filled.