Date 1 - Coffee and Constantine

I cannot remember the last time I felt concern about what I should wear. I decided on black pants, low heels, and a dark blue jacket. I left my hair down, partly because we had discussed my hair colour (Constantine had never dated a blonde before) and partly because the hair elastic that I keep handy on my wrist had snapped while I was nervously fiddling with it this morning.

I was on time, maybe a minute or two early. I walked into a bright, hipstery coffee shop and took a brief look around. The bars along either picture window overlooking the street were sprinkled with people visiting and doing their own thing. A couple of bearded guys were having an animated conversation at the first table. A lanky-looking guy in a suit looked busy with his phone and laptop. A group of firemen were at a table in the corner. I think I like it here. None of the firemen look like Constantine.

I realized I was gawking when the smiley guy behind the counter waved at me to get my attention. I felt my face turning bright red, and I started to laugh at myself. This was so weird. The barista asked how I was doing. He seemed amused and slightly concerned and I realized I was acting strangely. He was wearing a toque, so maybe I was overdressed in my business casual attire. Baristas have come a long way since I got a stern talking-to for wearing a bandana over my greasy hair when I got called in to work at the last minute on a Sunday morning.

I ordered a London fog and tried to feel positive. I was looking around like a tourist or something. The barista asked me how my day was going. I told him truthfully that it had been a very surreal and mostly stressful day, but that everything was going to be better soon. He laughed with me. Another customer came in when I asked him how his day was going, so I received an abbreviated response, and wrote the conversation off. I noticed a little station with glass bottles of water and little plastic cups, so I went over to pour one. The tables along the wall seated four people, and each one was taken up by single people with paperwork spread out or a laptop. There was one guy who could have possibly fit the bill, though he looked like he was there to work, so I got my water and tried to figure out where I could sit to keep an eye out for Constantine. I had decided to ask business dude if he didn’t mind sharing a table with me, when the guy I’d written off stood up and greeted me.

It was a hug. I do not normally hug, unless something is terribly wrong or terribly right, or unless it’s family. I was still caught up in the strangeness of the hug; I didn’t have the chance to take in 

My usual reaction to a hug

anything else. He asked if I’d ordered a drink to stay. I had. He bustled over to the counter to make his own order, and I sat down at his table. I didn’t look at the paperwork he had spread out, or peek at the screen of his laptop. I didn’t even examine the bottle of whatever sort of drink he’d had before I got there. I did not want to pry. Instead I looked at the paintings which were portraits and city skyline landscapes by a local artist. I liked them. My drink was ready by the time Constantine got back. It was in a to-go cup, though I’d told the be-touqued barista it was to stay. I worried for a moment that this looked like I was ready to bail.

Constantine sat back down and I really looked at him. He was tall with coarse curly brown hair that made him taller. It was greying slightly at the temples, which suited my notion of him as a wizard. He wore a grandfatherly grey cardigan over a checkered, collared shirt. I felt very dark and somber by comparison. I kept staring (perhaps rudely) at his eyes. They were brightly, steely blue.

Uh yeah. Nice to meet you.
I've gotta go.

We dove into conversation about a zillion things. I was totally honest and fairly forward. I proudly announced that I hadn’t snooped through his stuff, though I was terribly curious about what he’d been working on. So we talked about what he was working on, and I listened and asked questions and it felt good. Not nearly as scary as it seemed. We had laid some groundwork via email, so there were shared areas of interest to work with. Constantine had sent me some of his essays (ie rants), and I had written a number of impertinent follow-up questions in a notebook. When I took it out, he remarked on it, but did not make an excuse to run away.

He drank his vividly green matcha tea latte (unsweetened) and I downed my drink in a matter of minutes. And we talked. For two and a half hours.

Every once in a while I would realize that time had passed. My phone was in the pocket of my coat rolled up and stuffed deep into my cavernous purse, so that was no help. There were clocks on the wall, but they all showed different times. So we kept talking. We discussed perception and language and farmers and art. We laughed at things ineffable, and talked about home and that feeling of place. I told my all-time favourite (true) story of Jude the Guitar.

When I realized it was late and that I had to go, it happened to be at the same time that Constantine had asked me about my travels and where I’d been. I knew that would be a long story, especially given how often we wandered happily down conversational tangents, so I tabled it for next time. We decided to meet again. We hugged. It was a good hug.

I later realized that I forgot to get his phone number or find out his last name or any of the other basic things that people do. But I think it went well.

Not a bad beginning.