First Date | Marcos Alfaro My hands were sweaty. Would she have noticed? I always get ahead of myself in these situations, thinking that we’ll be holding hands by the end of the night. Wedding bells played in my head drowning out any other sound. I kept looking at the tiny digital clock above the radio station. Late, late, late. My foot turned to lead as I saw the clock turning another number. Is she nice? Do I look nice? Did I overdress? Did I underdress? I brushed my teeth, right? My heartbeat matched my speedometer. I finally managed to get off at my destinated exit; thank god for GPS. Slowing down and breaking at lights I practiced what I would say, how I would smile. My heart raced faster. It wasn’t speed but distance, and distance was closing. Turning away from the city, zipping left, right, left down picturesque suburban streets I could only hope that my nerves didn’t get the better of me. Giving myself whiplash examining each number pasted to mailboxes and garages I finally found it. The numbers I’ve been repeating ever since my hands got sweaty, ever since the time above the clock changed from 7:00 to 7:01, ever since I looked crazy repeating the same “hello” in my rearview mirror. I found it. I got out, flowers in hand. She opened her house door and met my gaze. We walked closer and blushed. “Hello” she said, “hello” I said in return. Our faces matched in smiles.
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