During that first unofficial date (that turned into one long conversation), she found herself wanting to find a way to see him again. She couldn't leave a glove or handkerchief like another generation. She must have her wallet. Hmmm. When he mentioned that he needed a haircut, she saw her chance.
Oh, I'll cut your hair, she said. She wasn't amazing at this skill, but she could give a decent haircut. The bonus was, you have to stand really close when you are giving a short cut.
He came to her home the next morning, Saturday. They spent the day together. They saw each other Sunday and Monday. Tuesday, there was no excuse to call. He found one.
How does a girl react to someone who calls if he wants to talk to her? There were no games, no false moves, just honest, If I want to talk to you, I'm going to call. How unusual. She did not resist. She wanted to be with him, wanted to probe his mind, wanted to look into those captivating eyes. Whew! Those eyes. They almost leapt out at her, from under the heavy brow. Whenever he looked at her, she felt her chest tighten and her stomach flip.
And there was this other thing: he never touched her. He was a gentleman, opening doors and such, but he didn't put his hand on the small of her back, he didn't put his arm around her shoulders or on her knee during a movie. There was no hand-holding, no kissing. She reminded herself over and over, He is your Friend. Why would he hold his Friends hand? Why would he kiss his Friend? Plus, he is only 5'10", remember?
She wouldn't call herself a prude; she was careful. She had witnessed what happens if you get too physical too soon. She wanted to be held, touched, kissed, but she wanted to take it slow.
But not this slow. Geesh! Fourteen days had passed since the first date. They had been together every single day, despite work and other obligations. It was Saturday and they decided to watch Saturday Night Live together. They sat in his parent's basement with two of his sisters, glowing from the television lights. They sat close, but not too close. She could never later recall a single sketch from that night's program because, all at once, she couldn't hear anything. He was brushing his hand along her arm. On purpose. Her ears were flooded with the throb of her heart. Her checks flushed, her scalp tingled. With the sisters in the room, both continued staring at the screen, unseeing. Gradually, his hand slid up the length of her arm and gently twisted her hair. This boy was good. He made her wait and wait for any touch then gave it to her so gently, so gradually that its slightest movement disrupted her very breath.
Finally, he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her tight to him. There is a place, just below the neck and to the side of the chest, where he and she fit together. She willingly rested her head there. She could feel his whiskers on her forehead, the firm pressure of his hand on her side, keeping her close. Somehow she knew, as she breathed in his scent and put her hand on his chest, that this place was now her place.