Is it another experiment, like the week without him?

Or is it an experiment of another kind, one wherein I test the waters of letting him a step or two closer, a little further in? I want to warn him, in a way:

Beware—it’s dark in here, close to my heart, near my soul. The curtains are drawn, and sheets cover the furniture. Dust inhabits the corners. Ghosts moan in the halls. Are you sure you want me to let you in?

I’m opening the door a crack, letting him peer in—maybe he’ll see the wrecked abandon within me and get scared off. Or maybe I’ll panic and slam the door in his face.

I don’t even know anymore.

I’m going on this date-not-date, but how I’ll react is a mystery to me.

Too Right, Too Soon

It was the third or fourth date-like outing before anything felt like more than just friends doing friendly hang-out stuff.

His POV. It’s five thirty, and I’ve been ready for an hour, so I’m reading to pass the time. And maybe, possibly, hoping for some helpful hints as to what the fuck I’m supposed to do, feel, say, or be. Hints as to her.

The first date, we just talked, on the front porch of my house. Second, we went for a walk in the park, several feet between us, almost as if it was the nineteenth century and we were courting. Third date, she had me over to her house and I brought carryout from a local Chinese place and we ate on her back deck and there was no alcohol and we sat on opposite sides of the square, glass table with the hole in the middle for an umbrella she didn’t have. That one felt almost like a date. It was the fourth one that crossed some sort of invisible line. I’d found this place online, a restaurant way out in the country, in the hills, surrounded by forests and two-lane highways. I figured the drive there would be as much the date as the dinner itself.