Wishful Thinking

There was a certain stigma which circulated around first dates; they were destined to be awkward, manufactured, uncomfortable. The purpose of first dates, really, was so that middle-aged married couples would have an anecdote to chuckle about later on. As she lit one candle using the flame of another, Elaine refused to let such stereotypes tarnish her evening. She'd seldom given in to the silly traditions of Valentine's Day, the romanticized ideas that the fourteenth of February would unquestionably unite two hearts, et cetera, et cetera. The sticky-sweet superficiality of it made her gag.

But tonight, she wanted to give in, if only partially, even just for a few hours, to the childish belief that love was in the air.

Waiting for the doorbell to ring, with a teenager's impatience, she was reminded of her senior prom, the naïve eagerness that coursed through her spine as she awaited the arrival of her very own Prince Charming. She hadn't let herself feel so giddy in a long time.

The doorbell rang at two minutes past seven; Elaine smiled, wondering if her date for the evening implored the same tactics she relied on - arrive two or three minutes past when you're expected, so as not to seem overeager or, worse, a careless slob.

If first dates were supposed to be stiff and awkward, Rafe was the polar opposite of a stereotypical suitor on a first date. Standing before Elaine with a lazy smile, his shoulders back, looking directly into her eyes free of hesitation, he was the picture of relaxation. It made her all the more nervous. She was quite the teenager, if only for tonight.

"You look beautiful, Elaine. Thank you for having me." He leaned in and kissed her cheek, a gesture that felt both childishly sweet and, at the same time, romantic and mature. She poured him a drink. Red wine. Sophisticated. Elegant. He seemed like the sort of man who would enjoy fine wine and philosophical discussions.

"Would you like to sit outside?" It would be frigid out on the deck, but standing in the doorway with him was suffocating.

Rafe nodded politely. She passed him the drink, all too aware of the fact that her hand had begun to shake.

Valentine's Day, Elaine suspected, wasn't the best evening of choice for a first date. February fourteenth was an occasion reserved for lovers who had already passed through the awkward, uncertain phase. Valentine's Day was not an evening for colleagues who were still vaguely uncomfortable with each other to spend together. Why hadn't she chosen a Saturday afternoon date at a coffee shop? Or Friday night drinks? Suddenly self-conscious, and berating herself for asking him out on the day of the year that held the most unwieldy romantic expectations, Elaine sunk into herself, her face flushed.

"You aren't going to cry, are you?" Rafe's questioned shocked her so much that she giggled, something she never expected to be able to do on a first date. He hooked his thumb under her chin and tilted her head up to his. "I'll tell you a secret. I'm not good with girls when they cry."

Elaine let her shoulders relax. "I'm not going to cry."

He let out an unabashed sigh of relief and dropped her chin. Having been released from his grip, Elaine stumbled carelessly into the table where the twin candles burned, the hem of her sweater catching fire.

"Oh!"

With less than a moment's hesitation, Rafe was upon her with the pitcher of water Elaine had positioned so perfectly at the center of the table. Pouring the icy liquid over her torso and back, effectively extinguishing the flames, he toppled her over, and himself in the process so that her limbs were spread beneath him in the grass, in a way that might have been considered erotic if it weren't simply a protective motion to put out the fire from her now-crisped sweater.

Breathless and shaken from the incident, Elaine began to laugh, the tense discomfort of the first date melting, giving way completely to teenage giddiness. Rafe rolled over so that they lay next to each other in the grass. It was then that Elaine allowed herself to believe that she had not made a mistake inviting him here, that perhaps, though they were only saplings to the idea of romance, that these were the moments from which love was born; not from grand, sweeping gestures, confessions of dire adorations, but from silly little mistakes that brought two hearts closer together. Icy droplets sparkled on her cheeks so that she couldn't tell where the water ended and where her tears of laughter began.

"It's funny...I had certain expectations for tonight, I guess. I never would have expected this."

"The fire?" Elaine said wryly. "Neither did I."

Rafe shook his head emphatically, sending water sprinkling out from the tips of his hair.

"No...well, yes, but I had this preconceived notion of you. I didn't expect you to be able to loosen up like this."

"So you thought I was a total stick in the mud." Elaine played it off jokingly, but she was a bit taken aback by his honesty about his impression of her.

"No! God no. Well, maybe a little. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Elaine folded her hands behind her head, surprised at the shift in the power dynamic between the two of them. Suddenly, while he seemed nervous, tense, awkward, she was at peace. "You're right. I think I am a bit of a square. I had these expectations about you, too."

He inched closer to her. "Hmm?"

"I took you for this complete romantic messiah, this elegant, sophisticated creature who I'd never in a million years match up with." She knew she sounded as though she idolized him. Perhaps, on some level, she did.

"I'm flattered." His tone was sincere. "Why'd you ask me out, then?"

The look in his eyes was earnest.

"I guess I wanted to believe that I could take a risk again, that I wasn't too shriveled and scared to do something romantic and fun. It sounds ridiculous."

In the grass, his fingertips brushed against hers. "It's not ridiculous." Hands clasped together. "It's not ridiculous at all."

It was the first - and sometimes I wonder if it was the last - time I would give in to such childish desires. There is nothing so terrifyingly intense as allowing oneself to be young again. As I scroll through Facebook, four February fourteenths later, my eyes have not get grown tired of watching the screen light up with displays of love posted from one admirer to another. Sometimes they hurt, like pinpricks against my arm. But no matter where they come from, or whether or not they are requited, each declaration allows me to think of the infinite chances that lie ahead, the possibilities that have been, and the ones that have been missed. Had that dinner date had been a waste, had I rendered Rafe and myself completely incompatible, had I decided from the get-go that I would not stand to spend another second with him, I might not be in the solitary company of my computer, living vicariously through the lives of other lovers.

Maybe we could've tried harder. Maybe we could've been bolder with each other, more willing to stay in the beautiful, yet ever vulnerable, honeymoon phase of first love. I try not to think these things. The life where we are together exists, maybe in another dimension. The life where we split after a nasty, bitter breakup, cut off contact and each seek constant revenge on each other lives in another dimension, too. In this world, though, in this life, we follow each other on Facebook and make pleasant small-talk whenever we meet at work. In this life, we are business-like, orderly, reserved. Timid. Afraid, maybe.

Happy Valentine's Day - and anniversary! - to my special someone. A picture. Two straight-out-of-a-magazine lovers with arms entangled. Rafe and his wife. The picture of a happy couple, all pearly whites and designer clothing, their poses as effortless as movie stars.

I miss him. He is happy. Maybe, in another dimension, he misses me too.

Or maybe I am simply a woman with the heart of a child, who wants to believe in the strange, beautiful thing that sparked between us that night.

Maybe it's just wishful thinking.