We talked about "The Barber of Seville." I made a crack or two about how talented that "Mozart guy" was.
We talked about death, about wondering if his next assignment would be his last. I couldn't say much about that. I could only listen and try and understand.
We talked about "Carrington" (he'd seen it, I still hadn't). He said that he'd go again, if I needed company.
We talked about books. He'd never heard of Jean Genet, although he'd seen the Fassbinder movie of "Querelle." I promised to loan him "Our Lady of the Flowers."
We talked more as we drove. He patted my knee a couple times as he tried to get my attention.
He didn't have to do that.
He had my attention for as long as he wanted it.
We sat in his car, parked at the curb outside of my house
"I'd like to invite you in," I said. "But I'd like to take it a little slow."
He shifted his back towards he driver's door and put his arm up on the seat between us. "Not a problem. I can wait until the second date."
"Good answer." I gazed at him, watching the pale streetlight break down the contours of his face into black and gray shadows.
"Do you kiss on the first date?" A finger traced the tip of my ear and made the skin on my neck goosebump.
"If you keep touching me like that I do."
His hand reached out and caressed the side of my face. "Like