Turning it over in my head, I swing like a rag doll from confident anticipation to frustrated dread and back again wondering, is this a date? My dress shoes are obnoxiously loud as they slap the concrete, demanding to know why I spent extra time to dress up for her. Quickly remembering irrational confidence is the most attractive quality in a man I settled my souls' questioning, determined I'd dressed this way for myself. Her eagerness to join me tonight and interest in my randomized conversation inspiring, I felt sure of our jaunt's identity. Though sureness left idle, bleeds into banality and from there my creative mind gets the best of me.
Every new day calls into question the concept of gender roles. Does a man define the outing or can feminism justify my inability to be direct? A value though it may be, to assert my desire for this evening to equal more than our normal fare, brings us to the brink of whatever ship we thought we'd boarded months ago. A friendship defined in a moment by dumb luck and blind ambition or a relationship built on risk and arbitrary signals gleaned from Redbook or buried in the acting opinion section of Men's Fitness.
I want to say it went well, or that in some singular stroke of brilliance my ego and self-conscious heckling ceased long enough for some real moment to slip in. I'd be overjoyed to report our friendship remained buoyant as ever, tossed hard by unequaled desire but buffeted again to port with a first mate or two. That fairy tale must illustrate a grand lesson for us. I'll let you know when I figure it out, but for now all I can say is you should wear those nice shoes. You look great in those shoes.
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