I was excited about a second date.

Do you understand how rare that is? I’m a jaded New York Cliché, I’m not supposed to get excited about dates!

I’ve been on so many dates in this city, I’ve lost count. Dating is just part of my routine. It involves minimal expectation, I’m usually able to keep my hopes to a minimum: “Hopefully I’ll have fun. Hopefully he won’t make me want to gouge my eyes out and stuff my ears with cotton. Hopefully I won’t resort to heavy drinking to make this guy palatable.”

I wasn’t just excited about this date, I was also nervous.

Not just a little nervous. The day of the date I was I-hate-my-hair, what-the-fuck-am-I-wearing, let’s-second-guess-everything nervous. It got so bad I ran to Forever 21 on my lunch break and bought a whole new outfit. I’m not kidding, I did that. That’s something I’ve never done before (but will probably do again).

When the college student cashier handed me the yellow bag containing the new dress I needed to buy and needed to change into before leaving work for my date, I had to admit the obvious: I liked this guy.

I liked him and I had hopes. Hopes that maybe he liked me too! That maybe this second date would turn into a third and then and fourth and then before I knew it I’d lose count! Hopes that maybe this was the start something! There was nothing jaded about this, dammit!

We’d only been on one date and here I was hoping. Uh oh. I’d just bought a dress from Forever 21, it was too late to stop myself now.

On the first date, conversation flowed smoother than the wine from the bottle of red we shared. We talked about dinosaurs, pirates, winter vacations, and books. That’s the weird, winding path to my heart. Most dates get lost on a turnpike that leads no where: “What do you do?” and “What kind of music do you listen to?” Not this one. When he made me laugh, there was nothing courteous about it. I don’t remember what he said, but I remember my laugh because it was loud and long and genuine. Anytime I laugh like that, I fall in love, just a little.

He was from Costa Rica, every word out of his mouth was spiced with Latin flavor. The Latin Lover fantasy is so established it has its own Wikipedia page. He was the complete trifecta: tall, dark, and handsome. It would have been harder to resist. Then at the end of the date he caught me by surprise, kissing me on the lips without a moment of hesitation. Bohemian Man-Children never do that.

What kind of butterflies live in Costa Rica? I have some inhabiting my stomach, I’d like to know.

I was excited and nervous. Can you blame me? A Latin Lover Cliché for a New York Cliché, come on, it’s perfect!

I had hopes. I bet after reading this, you do too. Perhaps hopes I’ll write more on the subject?