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Chronicles of a Single Brown Female: Second Date

Halt! Please do not start reading this until you have cued up Lovesong by Adele. Trust me.

I am not used to this, reader. I am not used to this at all. I’ve always been the chased not the chaser. Date #2 and I already feel like I am chasing him. Not a good sign.

After our first marvelous date, I was truly smitten but he didn’t text the next day or the next day. Then, I caved and texted him. I said to myself, self, it’s the year 2011 nothing wrong with a woman asserting her interest. Thankfully, after my text, he immediately responded and asked me on a second date.

So here we are, the second date.

We made plans to meet at eight p.m. at a wine bar on Third Avenue. The weather was not cooperating with my hair; the humidity had turned my perfectly tousled curls into an afro. I looked like Lenny Kravitz’s younger unattractive, not as successful, sister. On top of all this, it started to rain. Luckily, for the first time in my adult life, I had an umbrella. Armed with my hot pink Hello Kitty umbrella, I trekked down Second Avenue taking big steps to avoid the puddles that had formed in the cracked pavement. I made it. But my white Jimmy Choos did not. R.I.P twelve hundred dollar Jimmy Choos, I thank you for your service, you will be missed.

8:10 PM my phone buzzes shit, he is already there, I really need to stop being late to everything!

8:25 PM I walk in, he is waiting, dressed in an adorable pink button-down. I really enjoy men in pink shirts. I think it speaks to a man’s character when he can pull off pink. It says he is confident and knows what kind of tie looks good with such a bold color.

Hey! I was afraid you weren’t coming. He says smiling.

Nono! It started to rain and I couldn’t get a cab and  I go off on a tangent to explain my tardiness.

Well, whatever the case, I am glad you are here. You look beautiful.He responds giving me a warm hug. I hold him close for a little bit too long. It’s weird I know. But I can’t help it. I like him.

We walk over to our table. The whole menu is in Italian, I have no idea what anything means. Luckily, the waitress notices the distressed look on my face and comes over to explain everything in plain English.

We order a few appetizers and some drinks. I tell him about some interesting projects I am working on. I am trying not to dominate the conversation but I feel like I have so many hilarious stories to tell him. I want him to know everything about me. I want to open all the drawers in my bedroom and all the cupboards in my kitchen. I want him to look under my bed! I want to yell, Here I am! Here I am naked! Love me! I can’t help it. His eyes, his smile, he makes me feel like I am home again.

We finish dinner.

Are you interested in taking a walk? He asks.

My eyes beam. Yes off course.

We walk past Second Avenue, then past First Avenue towards the East River. It’s a pretty night, the wind is cool and the sky is clear. We are holding hands. Finally, we stop right by the water, I can see the Queens Borough Bridge and the lights of Long Island City, and it’s beautiful. He has his arm around me.

We are discussing the sweet sixteens of our time.

What songs did they play at the sweet sixteen’s of your day?  He asks.

My day? You realize you are not 100 years older than me, right?  I respond pushing his arm.

He smiles at me, Ok, fine, well what songs did they play?

I start to recount the big hits they played at parties when I was 16.  I ramble off a few Britney Spears hits and then before I can even begin to talk about the impact Christina Aguilera had on my life, he kisses me. It’s a sweet kiss, perhaps, a kiss that foreshadows future kisses to come?

We are just standing there looking out at the night sky. I turn to him, how many girls have you brought here? Huh? He kisses my forehead.

You would be the first.


I have a confession to make, I am a believer. I’ve had terrible relationships. But, I’ve never let them stop me from dating and searching for love. I have friends who just shut down after a bad relationship. That’s not me. I’ve never been able to suppress the wide-eyed, idealistic, naive believer of love in me. Yes, I am hurt, yes, I am upset and yes, I am betrayed. But don’t tell me that I’ve had my share. Don’t tell me that there isn’t someone waiting for me. Don’t tell me that I’ll never love again.


Chronicles of a Brown Girl Series

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