Our second first date, three years after our first first date, ended the next morning.
It's about damn time, Heartless!
Suffice it to say that the second first date went better than the first.
I texted him later that day, Thanks for an unexpected morning.
I'm not sure what I expected on that date I wasn't sure I should go on. Even during it, I was sitting across from him over sushi, talking about the small things, the details that make us up, and I mostly just felt like I hated the ritual, giving more of my stories to someone who really shouldn't care. He doesn't even know me, the only reason you listen half the time is because of the vague hope it all ends in sex.
Which it did.
I certainly didn't plan for it, didn't think it would happen, but we walked to my car and he kissed me and I kissed him back and all the ambivalence I had been feeling turned to sex.
I woke the next morning wrapped up in him, bare skin on bare skin, studying his tattoos, kissing him and maybe a little scared of him seeing me like that. The vulnerable Morning After.
I'm seeing him again in a few days, once our schedules align. It'll probably all fizzle out within weeks, he'll become another man to add to the ever growing list of Men Where I Wish I Hadn't, or Maybe He Won't. I'm still an optimist it seems.
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