Date Seven ...
Technically, Date Seven with G began Saturday about 4:30 p.m. Technically, I say, because that was the first time I saw him since the last time I'd seen him. But it was less a date and more "let me drop my stuff off at your place and hang out for a couple hours until I meet my friends for dinner and then we'll meet back here later."
Four of us were getting together for dinner in honor of Doreen's mom, we, the Chicago contingent, who couldn't make it to Ohio for the funeral. "I would invite you," I told G. "But this night is about Doreen, and it might not be the best time for you two to meet. Too emotional."
"Sure," he said. If there's a more sensitive guy on this planet when it comes to women and emotion, I haven't met him.
So he drove me to Doreen's building and she and I and Ron had a knockout dinner at Jane's unit, a very convenient elevator ride away.
Later, I cabbed back to G's place. He'd given me a key, just in case our schedules didn't sync.
I unlocked the door. "Honey?" I called out quietly, just in case he'd dozed off.
He appeared from the bedroom, from his desk.
So is that when the date began? Uninterruped time with G.
The next morning, we made breakfast together. I feel terribly grown up when I'm with him. It's hard not to feel like a grown-up with that high-rise view.
We plotted the day together. Shopping. Christmas shopping. We both had people to buy for. I scored first. Williams-Sonoma. He carried my package as we continued to shop. As we left 900 N. Michgan, hand in hand, he commented that he thinks girls are looking at him now because he's with someone.
"Sure," I said. "They're thinking, 'Huh. He must be worth having.' " Or, as I said later, "It could be because you're a tall, good-looking guy."
My shopping luck ran out fast. His, however, grew, and he was able to cross almost everyone off his list.
Having pressed mom for ideas a few days before, I was on the hunt for a particular sweater. The right shade of blue, bulky, turtleneck.
G, turns out, in addition to his myriad other outstanding qualities, is a helpful guy shopper, not one of those men who plants himself in a chair while the woman runs all over creation. No, G would spy a blue sweater and make sure I saw it. We winnowed down the parameters. We ducked into the Gap, since we were walking right by. And there I saw the closest I would come to the blue sweater yesterday. I showed it to G. "For reference, that's very close. Right color, right knit, right bulkiness." But it had a buttondown turtleneck thing going on, so you could wear it as a turtleneck or wear the collar another way. Mom wouldn't like the button detail, I explained.
But in the World of G, different is good. He liked the buttons for making that sweater different than all the other sweaters. And he campaigned for it for the rest of the day. "I think we should go back to Gap and get that sweater," he'd say.
We didn't. (But mom heard the story today and finds it very adorable that he was helping me shop for her.)
About 2 p.m., G announced that he was "medium hungry," and we made our way to the much-touted Mity Nice Grill in Water Tower (much-touted by me). With a short wait for a table, he perused the menu. I knew what I was there for. It's always the same thing. So when we were seated, he knew what I wanted.
And proceeded to order for me when the server came.
Guys, for those of you who don't know, this is a really nice touch. Chicks dig this.
I thanked him for ordering for me. "It's the gentlemanly thing to do," he said.
"Yes, but very few men do it."
Back at his place, we catnapped on the couch and then decided to go for a walk. By the lake.
It was pretty. The water and the sky were almost the same color in the twilight.
He kept trying to pack snowballs, but the snow was too fluffy.
"Hollywood snow," I said.
He crammed one together anyway and lobbed it in my direction, missing me by a mile.
"Oh, nice aim," I chided.
"That was merely a warning shot," he said, tossing another at the back of my coat.
Back on the other side of Lake Shore Drive, we walked through a park. Pretty in the darkness, the snow-covered path, the skyline. I stopped. He turned. And as I kissed him, I thought, "This is a postcard moment," a phrase Gemma and I use to describe a picture-perfect point in time.
We made our way to Treasure Island to pick up provisions for dinner, and at home later, he set about preparing.
"What can I do?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said.
Dinner underway, we curled up on the couch to watch "Dangerous Liasons." A timer rang. He went into the kitchen.
"Can I help?" I called.
"Nope," he said, and next thing I knew, he was standing in front of me with a glass of wine.
Guys, if you're still taking notes, this is a very good move as well.
When dinner was ready, I sat across from him at the dining table as he served me. Normally, I wait for the other person to be served before starting, but this time, I dug in.
Oh. My. God. Another fabulous G meal.
I got up, put my napkin on the chair, walked around to his side of the table, tilted his head back and planted one on him.
He laughed. "I didn't even get my first bite," he said.
"You already know what it tastes like."
So we finished dinner and it was decided I would stay, despite his need to leave very early this morning. And so we went to bed. And the alarm went off this morning, but we both went back to sleep. And when I woke up, he was leaning on one elbow, looking at me. Smiling.
He got ready, then me. And there came a knock on the bathroom door. I opened it to find him standing there in his coat. So we said goodbye and I finished getting ready as he was on his way to work. And I grabbed his keys and went downstairs to the Starbucks to get a coffee for the ride home, returned his keys to the counter, gathered my things, and made my way home.
39 hours later.
Does that count as one date?