Six years ago, I went on a first date with a man I was friends with. Coincidentally, March 10 was a Thursday six years ago.
I didn't really realize it was a date until he picked me up. He usually wears glasses, but he wore contacts that night. He had on jeans and baby blue shirt, which made his blue eyes stand out.
We went to dinner, and he tried to buy me a drink--I said no thanks, and he laughed, suddenly remembering that I wasn't 21 yet. We went to a debate after dinner. He held my hand during the debate, and kissed me after it, on the campus of University of Buffalo.
Six years later, I rush home to make dinner, and I set the table with flowers and candles. I pet the dog, do the dishes, and straighten up the bedroom. In an hour, that same man will walk through the door, and the dog will beat me to him, but he will gently shove the dog off and kiss me first. We'll have dinner and talk, then walk the dog.
Six years ago, I didn't think this would be possible. I hoped, but I didn't think. Then, when I realized it was not just possible, it was probable, I worried about what it would be like, years later, when we had gotten used to each other. When we first started dating, it was all like a dream, and I was in a state of constant twitterpaption. I didn't want to lose that.
I haven't. It's just deeper, and steadier, and so, so much better.