The Story of K, Part III

My first two dates with K were ones for the proverbial record book. Not necessarily in terms of duration or because they were terribly creative but because they involved little more than talk (with sporadic barfing) yet that just didn't seem to matter. They were, no question, the best first-two-dates I'd ever been on.

I also knew that I'd never dated anyone quite like K before. After our first date, the boy wrote me a poem, for god's sake. (Title: Cheesy Poem.) He then later admitted to me that, at his weekly karaoke emcee gig on the night after our second date, his eyes were fixed on the back of the bar the entire evening, half-expecting and fully-wanting me to walk through the door. Between how I was feeling and the messages K was sending, this was seriously feeling like a burgeoning real deal.

I'd made it safely home from our spur of the moment weeknight sushi date (otherwise known as Date #2). In the days that followed, heavy emailing ensued, but nary a mention of date #3. So, after growing rather frustrated by K's failure to inquire about when we'd be getting together again, I finally broached the subject. Granted, I did so in what I believed/hoped was a witty, coy and elusive fashion because that, after all, seemed to be our joint modus operandi when it came to email. Electronic communiques were a tool to be used for flirtation, baiting and subtle manipulation. And in rare cases, (bad) poem writing. Face-to-face dates were to be used for actually getting to know one another. I could deal with K's playerish tendencies in email as long as I had frequent enough occasions to experience The Real K in real life. And so, with that goal in mind, I went angling for date #3.

K informed me that he would soon be headed out of town for a conference. It would span five days...but, strangely, he said he wouldn't be available for about two weeks. He told me the date when his schedule would finally re-open and offered it for the taking. I took. He'd be coming down to my place. We'd make dinner.

The next two weeks were marked by alternating periods of excruciating and almost debilitating impatience and waves of overwhelming joy. A day or two of no contact from K was balanced by semi-unexpected and glee-inducing calls made to me while he was in between conference sessions. Boys don't call girls when they're out of town unless they really like them, I told myself.

On the eve of Date #3, K emailed and accepted my previously-extended offer to make dessert. He then declared that everything else on the menu was his, suggested I opt for a particular tone of wardrobe choice because we could possibly eventually end up having a cocktail somewhere or even find ourselves sitting under a tree, and then flirtatiously noted that he wasn't telling me the rest.

En route to my house, K called from the car and said he'd be about 15 minutes late. No more than 30 seconds later, his 6-foot-5-ness was in my doorway, oddly, with no groceries in hand. He'd never been to my house so I took him to the backyard to show him the hammock that another boy had graciously strung for me between two limbs of my magnificent willow tree. As K and I stood inches from one another on the deck admiring both the apparatus and the foliage, the chemistry palpable, he gently pulled me towards him.

"Oh look...a stair," he sarcastically observed, reminding us both of the kisses we shared after sushi, perched on the steps outside of his apartment. He then took my hand, declared it was time to go, and led me to the car.

Having not a clue when or how dinner was happening (and after that kiss, frankly, caring not on either account), I decided it was best to dispense with the notion of asking questions. The man seemed to know exactly what he was doing. And few things, in my mind anyway, are hotter than a man with a plan.

We watched evening turn into night laying on a blanket beneath a giant oak tree in a park about four minutes from my house. Out of the plastic bags stashed behind his driver's seat, K had pulled sushi he'd picked up on the way to my house, a bottle of red wine and two little plastic cups. It was sweet and charming and romantic, well-planned and flawlessly executed. For this Type A gal, it doesn't get much better.

Though we never did get that damn candle to light.

Our conversation covered so much ground, its nearly impossible to remember just what we discussed. The setting sun served as our only reminder that, after hours of talking about prior relationships, our families, and K's son, we'd lost complete track of time. It was all so candid, so honest....and so not indicative of what my future with K held in store.

After engaging in what can only be described as some highly inappropriate park behavior, I announced that I needed to take him to a well-lit and populated public place. We also agreed that a cocktail (or three) was in order. As we exited his car and walked the half-block to the restaurant, K looked down at me, smiled, and took my hand.

The next morning, K had a date with his son to watch cartoons and I had a presentation on campus. There would be no lingering over coffee, no gazing adoringly at one another across the breakfast table. Instead, he stood in the doorway as I brushed my teeth and I watched, bemusedly...not to mention rather in awe of just how god damn attractive he was...as he tried in vain to fix his hair. We parted after a long, sweet kiss.

For at least another few minutes, K was still in my living room. But, somehow, I missed him already.