I get there, as always, a few minutes late and he’s already there. He’s sitting outside with a cup of coffee and when I return with my own cup I discover that he too is drinking plain black. A point in his favor.
At no point does the conversation lag. He’s funny. I like him. I’m pretty sure he likes me. The chemistry between us, I discover, is palpable several tables away. I get up to use the washroom and two things happen. One, I realize that despite the fact that we’ve just met, I’m not afraid to leave my half drunk coffee alone with him. This is a major no-no, but I do it anyway. Two, as I walk by another table I hear them talking about us. They’re trying to figure out if we’re on a first date or if we’re long lost lovers reunited for one brief evening. One of the ladies is trying to get the others to bet her that we’ll be making out before they leave. I smile because of course I’m not going to kiss PhysicallyAffectionateGuy. We’ve just met.
At some point in the evening he says he would like to touch my hand but he doesn’t want to cross any boundaries. I tell him he can touch my hand. And for a few seconds it feels like awkward silence has descended as I’m so busy being aware of the literal sparks I feel when he covers my hand with his own, that I’m unable to make conversation. The betting woman is gone, but if she’d stuck around she would have won her bet. I can’t remember who made the first move although I’m pretty sure he asked for permission, but suddenly we’re kissing. And it’s pretty fantastic. Starbucks is long closed before either of us becomes aware of the time and we reluctantly say goodnight (or I suppose good morning as it is well past midnight before this happens).