I did not think much of him the first time I saw him, because he was a bit younger, and not the type I was usually attracted to. I liked dark tall men, with chiseled jaws, and he was short, blondish and baby faced.
But we were co-workers and I was in his town, so I asked him to show me around the next day if he could. He said yes, and we parted.
The next day, however, I caught myself singing while putting on my makeup, something that betrayed I was happy.
"Am I attracted to him?" I wondered.
That was a problem with me, I was always the last to know when someone was doing it for me. I was so starved for company and friendship, I would approach anyone and everyone with a friendly disposition. And then when I would realize that I had different feelings, I was surprised. Because for me, love was always a matter between friends. Or so it should be.
We went out, he showed me around, we sat to eat in a restaurant.
As the night went by, the way he was looking at me left no doubt in my mind, and the pit at the end of my stomach was telling me we would kiss before the night would be over. Yet, we talked and walked and chit chatted, talking about all the nonsense that 20-year-olds can say, without once getting intimate. It was about history, personal stories with families, work, but nothing more, nothing .... except one thing.
As we talked about food or something as trivial, the back of his hand touched mine and seamlessly without missing a beat or a word of the discussion, our hands turned to one another, and our souls and hearts fused at the touch. We kept on walking and talking like strangers who just met, but our hands had propelled us to another level, intimate, loving and belonging.
This was the beginning ( to be continued)