A stranger passing

Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me,
why should you not speak to me?
And why should I not speak to you?

- Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

I arrived to find him sitting at the bar. I could tell it was him from his profile; hard to put your finger on it but there was something so sturdy about him. I tapped him on the shoulder and he immediately scooted over one stool, making room for me and my awkwardly large purse (it had its own stool). He wanted to know if I wanted some wine and of course, my fast and ready answer: Yes! He then challenged me to order for the both of us, two glasses of wine from a daunting menu, fashioned in the style of a book of about 75 pages.

It took me only 30 seconds--longest--to settle on a reserve Spanish rioja. Delish.

He wanted to know where I was from. Rather, what were my roots? My origins? I told him to guess.

His eyes narrowed, ever so slightly and he dipped his head slightly to the right before speaking. "You know, I could tell...." he said, "I could tell within five minutes of talking to you that you were like this."

"And what am I like?"

"Well, you know...straightforward..." He seemed to search for words. "Challenging?"

"Feisty?" I offered.

"Yes!" He grinned. "And I like it."

* * * * * * * * * * * *
Fast forward 45-minutes and we're seated at a table against the side wall. The restaurant is warm and dimly lit. Romantic, I'll admit. It's busy but not too crowded and little does he know that I am just as familiar with the menu as he. It's tapas again; I'm on a tapas streak!

He hands me the menu and tells me to go for it but that's not necessarily what I am comfortable with. I spout out about 10 tapas that sound good to me. He names another and I veto. He then ditches a couple of my choices but not before commenting, "You know, there's a lot of overlap in our tastes."

"Yes."

"A good thing, no?"

"Sure." And then I dive into our cheese tray.

He wants more wine. I suggest it's his turn to choose.

* * * * * * * * * * * *
"Do you have a sweet tooth?"

"Yes!" Both the server and I answer at the same time. I glance up at her.

"Well," she says to my date, "She's a woman, of course she has a sweet tooth. She loves chocolate."

I can only nod.

He orders a chocolate hazelnut (hmmm) torte. It comes with a side of warm chocolate.

"Mind?" I hold it up and grin.

"Go for it. Go crazy."

I pour it over the torte and it oozes down into the crunchy grooves. We both go for a bite and our spoons hit in the middle.

* * * * * * * * * * * *
"This was fun!"

"Yes, thank you so much!"

The night in Venice has turned brisk and I wrap my arms around myself. I didn't bring a jacket; my soul is craving sundress weather (if I could wear a sundress every day of my life, I would!). He valeted and I parked my car around the corner.

"Let's do it again sometime," he raises his eyebrows.

"Yes!" I say.

But I spoke too soon. My intuition, that stubborn inner compass of mine, it was giving me a nudge.

I knew I didn't want to see him again.