I thought you were interested when I caught the faint whiff of cologne as you walked past me. I suspected, when you buttoned your shirt just so, and showed up at my door so polished. I guessed that you were hoping you would impress me. And you did.
But of course it is never the cologne or your clothing that makes the difference, never is. But it was nice, I thought–I believe it even if my mother said it was true–nice the effort you put into showing me that it was worth the extra few minutes, worth the consideration, worth you wondering perhaps if maybe I might like you, too.
And I did.
I wore perfume, too. You might have noticed, though I tried hard not to be obvious. I smoothed my favorite skirt, wondering if I should really have worn that one, and the heels, and I felt my face flush when I knew you had arrived, when I came to greet you.
You knew perhaps you might kiss me that day, and perhaps you did. Perhaps I just wanted you to. Perhaps I hoped in fact that we might meet again once, someday, somewhere nice like here, or anywhere really. It is so lovely here, here where birds sing, where music plays and I dream my little dreams, but there are so many nice places everywhere. It is nice when you join me in my world, when you show me yours, when life is full of the wonder of discovery, the joy of sharing, the rendezvous… you, perhaps, the flirting, the spark, the smile, the blush, or even nothing but the mere possibility of you.