You are going on a first date and you have changed your outfit 3 times. 

When he arrives to pick you up, he politely asks, “How are you?”

I hope you tell him about how you are both nervous and excited, how you pretend you don’t understand how these emotions can coexist even though you learned a long time ago that hope and disappointment are next door neighbors and love and loss are childhood best friends. I hope you tell him how you are nervous because you know that firsts are almost always scary and lasts are almost always sad and sometimes you feel overwhelmed because they happen at the exact same time. I hope you tell him how you are excited because you know that sometimes beginnings don’t have ends, that people are profound, and sometimes they stay.

But instead you answer, “Good, how are you?” 

You are at a bar on a first date sipping your drink slowly, pretending to be someone who has been quenched their whole life.

In a lackluster attempt to keep the silence at bay, he asks, “So what’s your favorite color?” 

I hope you tell him about how pretty of a gray the sky is when it’s raining at night, how it’s dark enough to hide and hold you, but light enough to illuminate the way as you run outside through the streets with your friends. I hope you tell him about the fluorescent reds and oranges of dive bars, how they beckon you in, as if to always say “welcome” regardless of what the neon sign actually reads. I hope you tell him about the soft dustiness of little pink flowers, how they never overshadow anything but instead bloom gently existing only for those patient enough to notice them.

But instead you reply, “Blue.”

You are at a bar on a first date and you are almost drunk and so is he and you are smiling because you know you are supposed to.

After finishing another story about himself, he asks, “What do you like to do for fun?”

I hope you tell him about how you like to dance in cornfields twirling with your arms spread out wide enough your fingertips graze the edges of the town that you outgrew. I hope you tell him about how you like cross country adventures and sunset car rides blasting music with no destination, how they somehow resemble the feeling of home.  I hope you tell him about how you like chaotic high-heeled nights with your best friends that turn into laughter-filled sweat pant brunches with your chosen family, how they make you feel alive in just the right way.

But instead you reply, “I like to dance and travel and go out.”

You are walking home from the bar and you are holding his hand and he is holding yours back as if not ready for this first to end.

“Have you ever been in love?” he asks trying to ask better questions. He pauses, hesitating for the first time all evening. “Actually, have you ever been loved deeply?”

I hope you do not hesitate.

I hope you tell him, “Yes.”