DATE 7- Moth to the Flame

After a tortured week of blocking his number then unblocking, then blocking and unblocking again, I reconnect with the Italian. I cancel plans with a girlfriend and agree to a Saturday night date. There is no logic to this any longer; I know I have already lost the battle and I don't care. I want to see him, want to talk to him, want to see if I'm truly crazy and embellishing this story in my mind, or is this really the most electric connection I've had in years.

My hair is tousled and curled, my eyelashes are freshly glued, my silk top is perfectly sheer ("Oh goodness, I didn't realize you could see my black lacey bra and creamy full breasts under this blouse!"). My look is on fleek, as the kids say, and I can feel it as I walk to meet him. He is stand-offish with me at first. I didn't behave the way he wanted this week, and I get the impression he isn't going to take anyone's shit. We head to Al Di La, where he knows everyone and I can safely assume has had relations with a few of these waitresses and patronesses. He glances furtively to look for any trouble spots before we sit down. He doesn't ask what I want, simply orders the best mussels, best Pecorino, the best rabbit for us to share. We both relax into the evening, and eventually I start talking about what I do for a living and he asks questions; we talk about my varied interests and he is fascinated. I watch his eyes light up as it dawns on him that I might actually have a career and know what I am talking about in some areas. Could that be a glimmer of respect I see in his eyes? We bounce ideas off each other and again I am struck by how knowledgeable and inspiring he is in some matters.

We hop into his tiny Fiat and head to a hipster bar in Gowanus. He is by far the oldest person in the room, and at 33 I am the second oldest. We order a $26 bottle of champagne and head out on to the patio to talk. Its freezing outside and we are alone with the exception of a few smokers, but we don't feel the cold. We talk, kiss, dance until the bottle is gone, and I am vaguely aware that 23 year olds are watching the strange grown ups slow dance outside in their expensive coats. And we are the grown ups.

I'm not alone on this branch, I see the look in his eyes and I know he feels this madness too. We have more chemistry than an MIT lab; I am NOT making this up in my sad little brain. Onward we march, gallivanting our way through the Slope until we decide the rabbit ain't cutting it. The only place I know that is open at this very late hour is my Mexican bakery, which is getting perilously close to my apartment. Although a swingin' bachelorette pad, the apartment is in woeful condition right now...boxes everywhere, a bag of dirty laundry holding the refrigerator door closed because something is broken and I cannot ascertain what, a general hurricane has taken over the apartment and it is not man ready for the only man I am actually interested in.

"Come on, amore, let's eat at your house."

"Oh God, no! Please! You'll never speak to me again, its a disaster! NO NO NO!"

"Amore, don't be pazza, do you know how many crazy apartments I have been in?"

"This is Olympic level messiness, you'll be disgusted!"

We take the bag of tacos and I drag myself up the stairs, certain that this will be the last time I see this man. I am taking an interior designer into a slob's pad. He walks in and is...charmed? He loves it, loves my art, loves the whole space. He walks around looking at the furniture, he fixes the fridge door, he wants to know where my strange objets d'art are from. He tries to buy my most favorite leather chair off of me, and I tell him he can have it as a wedding present. I keep pointing out all the flaws and he takes my hand and says "Amore, this is really good! You will make this beautiful! This is so great!" He looks for wine in the fridge and finds that, as with everything so far, we have the same taste and love dry whites from Campania. We sit around talking, laughing, and never even get to the tacos. I know we kissed endlessly, but I remember the hours of talking so much more. Perhaps this is the difference between men and women. I don't trust him at all, and I trust myself less, so I can't get biblical, but what is more intimate than waking up in each other's arms? When I move, he wakes and kisses me until I fall back asleep, twisted in his embrace.

The sun rises on Easter Sunday, and I wake with a complicated, tricky man in my bed. He would linger, but I can't. I can only fight off his advances for so long, and a new day beckons. I put on running clothes and force him down to the bakery where we get coffee and my favorite walnut pound cake. We sit on a stoop by his car, sharing cake and talking about my former boyfriend. As I walk away he shouts, "Amore, I love you!", which breaks my heart a little because its rubbing in how insignificant this is to him. I wish he said nothing at all so I could pretend that perhaps something real was germinating in his heart.

DATE SEVEN- FEELING LIKE A KINGS OF LEON SONG

WINE SELECTION- PERFECTION. HOMEGIRL KNOWS HOW TO SELECT A GOOD FUCKING WINE.

THOUGHTFUL OBSERVATION- AN ANKLET WORN ON THE RIGHT MAN IS LESS OFFENSIVE THAN AN ANKLET WORN ON THE WRONG MAN. BUT ITS STILL A QUESTIONABLE CHOICE.