Dinner Date

I remember it like it was yesterday.

Sunlight on the table. Eating and drinking. Champagne-vibe music drifting through the room.

It felt like a dream, but it wasn’t.

He made me shrimp and some kind of rice I’d never had before.

A little weird.

Really good.

I devoured it, along with the drink he placed in my hand.

Before I ever really knew him, I knew his food. From my balcony, smells would drift over in the early evening, warm and inviting. Sometimes it made me pause whatever I was doing just to take it in. I didn’t know who lived next door yet, only that someone nearby cooked with care. I found myself opening the balcony door a little wider than usual, letting the air move through.

Sometimes I tried to guess what he was making. Garlic, citrus, something toasted low and slow. It felt oddly intimate, knowing so much about someone without knowing anything at all. I’d stand there longer than necessary, leaning on the rail, the city humming below, wondering who cooked like that on a weekday evening.

I didn’t rush myself away from that feeling. I let it be simple, unexamined. Just the quiet pleasure of noticing something ordinary being done with care. It felt grounding in a way I didn’t yet have language for.

I let the thoughts settle and allowed my senses to carry me.

I remember noticing how rare it felt to let a moment arrive without trying to name it. I wasn’t asking where it would lead or what it meant. I was just there, paying attention. The evening didn’t feel rushed or expectant. It felt complete on its own, as if nothing more was required of me than to notice and remain present.

We met casually in our respective hallways, in the same building, by the elevator where a tiny plant sits. It was interesting, to say the least, the way we vibed and laughed before really speaking.

The hallway was quiet, the kind of quiet that lets you hear your own breathing. The elevator took longer than usual, and neither of us seemed in a hurry for it to arrive.

I became aware of my own breathing, how it slowed without my asking it to. Neither of us spoke, and it didn’t feel like something was missing. It felt like something was being allowed.

His face was clean, with just a bit of facial hair.

He looked at me, focused, and said,

“What a surprise. I’ve seen you here before.”

I couldn’t even remember when he might have seen me, so I laughed.

For real?

There was something tender in it, that feeling of being seen.

But never mind that. I was really just hurrying to get to my apartment, and still, it felt like time stood by.

We looked at each other for a moment that was both brief and somehow long.

Then he asked, almost casually, if I would like to have dinner at his place.

He said he had been wanting a taste tester.

I laughed.

“Well, I need to take myself upstairs first,” I said.

“I look a mess right now. But I can swing by.”

I got to my apartment, did a little something with my hair, and slipped into a comfy outfit. Loose, of course.

A girl has to look her best.

All done up, I headed back down to the elevator. By the time I reached his apartment door, bam, the aroma hit me. The food smelled so good it stopped me for a second.

He opened the door wearing an apron and welcomed me in.

His apartment was wonderfully decorated. Cozy in a way that felt intentional.

He told me I looked ravishing, and I accepted the compliment with a blush. As I walked further inside, I noticed records, books, and pieces of art on display.

Jazz played softly in the background.

In the kitchen, pots simmered on the stove.

I watched him check each one, making sure everything was just right. He tasted, adjusted, then tasted again, unhurried. There was something grounding about watching someone take their time like that.

Watching him cook was intoxicating, enough that I had to steady myself, lingering there longer than I meant to.

My shoulders relaxed without me realizing they had been tense.

I wasn’t used to being invited into someone else’s rhythm so easily. There was no performance in it, no rush to impress. Just attention. Care. That alone felt generous, like being allowed to witness something private without having to ask.

He let me taste what was ready.

The kitchen felt real.

Honest.

Lived in.

He had Alex Isley playing. I turned toward him and smiled, feeling the music as I sang right on beat.

I stood up to dance, and he joined me.

The food was ready, but the beat was not done with us yet.

When the song slowed, we slipped into an awkward but cute, fumbling slow dance. At first there was space between us. Then less of it.

His shoulder felt like an invitation, and I leaned in.

I thought about how my body already knew him before my mind did.

We danced in the quiet.

I felt happy.

When the dancing stopped, he kissed me on the cheek. We drank and ate a little more.

We sat down, a little breathless.

The first bite after dancing tasted even better.

We talked, dined, and discussed our favorite podcasts and vinyl. Conversation moved easily. Nothing forced. Nothing heavy. It felt like there was time.

He fed me cake made from scratch.

It was good cake.

I’m not afraid to say I licked the spoon.

Later, back in my apartment, the night felt quieter than usual. Not empty. Just settled. I opened the balcony door and let the air move through, carrying faint traces of music and food that still lingered.

The night air moved through the room, cooler now, quieter. The building hummed softly, familiar again. I stood there breathing it in, letting the moment settle where it wanted to. I caught myself smiling.

I wondered what was for dinner tonight.