“I hope you aren’t worried I’m trying to Netflix and chill or anything — because I’ve met your boyfriend,” he said from behind me as I navigated us to the train.
My response was carefully calculated, “Two things: Number one, I’m not worried. Number two, I don’t have a boyfriend anymore”. I stopped hearing the shuffling of his feet. My statement had stopped him dead in his tracks.
The last block to the train was filled with looks of disbelief. My gallop down the stairs was accompanied by him questioning why that wasn’t the first thing out of my mouth that night. By the time we were standing at the platform edge awaiting the train he was asking, “Can I kiss you?” Before a single thought crossed my mind, I felt my mouth turn into a smile and heard my voice say, “Yes”.
The last time someone had asked me that question I was standing on the waterfront in Brooklyn looking at the magnificent lights of downtown Manhattan. A man had just taken me to an outrageously priced three-course meal, which was our third date. Our fourth date could be better described as a meeting to break up.
I found his question to be just endearing enough not to be repulsive. He was sweet to ask, but there was no confidence in his intentions and the closed-mouth peck that came next made me feel like I was twelve. Talking to a friend about it later, I recall saying, “Some girls might like being asked for a kiss, but I’m not one of those girls.”
I was wrong. I just hadn’t been asked in the right way.
Back to the train platform…
The way he asked for my permission to send electricity pulsing from his lips to my toes was kind and considerate. He wasn’t timid — there was understanding in his eyes that the answer would likely be yes, but that if it was not, it would be the end of the discussion.