Blind Date

After passing each other twice, I noticed a vague resemblance to your profile picture online. There were ten seconds left on the crosswalk when a car turning aggressively left honked at us. We stared hard at each other. With two seconds left, you grabbed my arm and pulled me out of traffic, walking on the sidewalk closest to the cars. You wore a leather jacket, and with each deliberative step I caught a whiff of Armani Black cologne.

I heard myself start narrativizing the story we would tell the twins. This is the day we met, I would say, searching for adjectives. Looking up, I saw a sliver of moon peep out from behind a coffee shop. It smelled like roast pork and the nervous scent trees get when it’s about to rain. My ears caught the thin melody of a somber violin. The sky thundered, but in a way that was exciting because I was not alone.

“Do you enjoy food?” you asked, once we made it to a stretch of quiet sidewalk.

“I’ve been eating food for as long as I can remember,” I said. “So I would say so.”

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