City Love(51)

“Done.” D signals our waitress for the check. Then he whips his laser focus back to me. No one has ever looked at me with such intense laser focus before. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Well, apologize for, really.”

“What?”

“I’ve been kicking myself for bringing up other girls I’ve dated on our first date. Old girlfriends are like the number one thing you’re not supposed to talk about on a first date. Everyone knows this. Apologies for being such a douche.”

“No worries.”

“Your strength is a little intimidating.”

“Really?” I look down at my skinny arms. I should think about lifting at some point.

D laughs. “I meant your strength of character. You just graduated from high school, but you already have your shit together. Most people don’t have their shit together until they’re thirty. If that. But you . . . it’s like you were born this way. No one will be surprised when you take over the world.”

D seems like he’s been there, done that with everything. But it still sounds like he admires me, which makes me feel special. I’ve never really felt special before.

When the check arrives (on a little brass tray with two chocolate mints, making me fall in love with this place even more), I pick it up. “This one’s on me.”

D snatches the check out of my hand. “I don’t think so.”

I snatch it back. “I insist.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. You always treat. You deserve to be treated for once.”

“Thanks. That’s sweet of you.”

As I take the check up to the register, I try not to freak out. Treating D was not my plan. It’s just something I decided to do spontaneously. I try to avoid snap decisions. But I’m falling for him so hard I can’t think straight. And I don’t want him to think I expect him to pay for everything. Even though he has more money than he knows what to do with and he’s reassured me he wants to treat, I feel like I owe him.

Standing in line, I can feel D’s eyes on me. I wouldn’t be surprised if I could sense his intense laser focus all the way back in Chicago. I sneak a glance at the check while pretending to admire the elegantly decorated cakes in the display case. I didn’t even see how much it was. The total almost gives me a heart attack. Our dessert and coffee is basically my grocery money for the week.

Do not freak out. You will find a way to make this work.

New Yorkers don’t deal well with waiting in line. Even waiting for one or two minutes seems to challenge them in perplexing ways. Is it that they always want to keep moving? Or that they’re always running late? Or maybe they’re just naturally restless. Their restless nature is what probably brought a lot of them here.

It’s my turn to pay. My first mistake was not getting my money ready. I can never pay fast enough when there are people behind me in line. Their impatience is palpable. The lady behind me in line at a deli the other day actually pushed right up next to me and started putting her stuff down on the counter when I didn’t even have my wallet out yet. Rude and rude.

The cashier repeats the total amount due. As if the image of the check isn’t burned into my brain in horrifying detail. I root through the change pouch of my wallet for exact change. The cashier turns to talk to a waiter behind her. The guy behind me in line stares at my wallet. I nervously fumble for dimes. My ancient wallet is not cooperating. The coins have slipped under the lining and it’s taking forever to pull them out. The guy behind me sighs impatiently. I almost rip a five in half trying to yank it from the clutches of my busted wallet. I need a new wallet. But good ones are expensive. If I buy another cheap one, it will rapidly deteriorate to a similarly pathetic condition. Maybe I can line the ripped coin pouch with a baggie.

After I pay, I can’t help giving the guy behind me a harsh look. How can anyone be so disgruntled at Cafe Lalo? It could not be more wonderful here. Lalo is the kind of place you come to unwind and share a leisurely pot of tea with someone special. It is not the kind of place you come to huff at the person in line ahead of you for being slow.

D appreciates Cafe Lalo the way it was meant to be appreciated. And he wanted to share it with me. I can picture him here at various points in his life. Four years old, sitting with his parents at one of the bigger tables, chocolate frosting smeared on his face. Eleven years old, here with his mom after a Saturday afternoon soccer game. Sixteen years old, at an intimate corner table with that pretty girl from chem class. This place holds the history of D’s life. These tables have heard his stories, bridged connections with friends, and charmed his girlfriends. This is where he grew up.

“Ready?” D says, waiting for me by the door.

If he only knew how ready I was.

We burst out into the warm summer night. When D told me about his idea to see an outdoor movie, I couldn’t have been more thrilled. I can’t wait to experience outdoor movies. I want to take advantage of everything New York has to offer. I want to do everything real New Yorkers do, the kinds of activities that will make me fall in love with this city even more.

D puts his arm around me as we walk along West 83rd Street. The delicious aroma of Lalo lingers on us. My clothes, my hair, even my skin all smell like fresh-roasted coffee. The streets are alive with weeknight activity. Cabs and trucks and bikers fly down Broadway. A bunch of high school boys zip past on skateboards. People scatter across the sidewalks, coming home from work or on their way to dinner. No matter what day or what time it is, there are always a million things going on.