Suave

And then she invites me for a drink and I remember that I am actually, really, pretty good at this stuff.

Sort of.

It may be that, in the three hours between getting her message and meeting up with her I rushed out of the house to the liquor store to pick up a bottle of wine I thought she might like, as a Bastille day present (she's French, if I haven't mentioned that-- or even if I have), fretted over the variety and origin of said bottle, vacillated on what to wear, decided, discovered that the shirt I had chosen was dirty and our laundry machines were in use, washed my shirt in the sink, drove to the laundromat to dry it, played some Ms. Pacman, fretted some more, ate dinner, showered and then packed up the wine with two glasses and a corkscrew in an old messenger bag and headed over to see her.

It may have been that all of those things happened. The affect, however, is that I showed up in my awesome new pants with a demi-bottle of wine that happened to be from a town 5 minutes from where she grew up and she suggested that we take it to the park and drink. So we did.

We sat overlooking the city, with bunny rabbits prancing all about and other magical woodland creatures, I'm sure. We were not bothered by homeless meth-addicts. It was all very romantical, except I didn't really give a shit about the setting so much as just about being close to her and listening to her talk and making her laugh when I could. I think I did OK.

Score one for me.