We kiss perfectly. No adjustment necessary.
He forces himself to leave the car and tells me he will call the next week. Before he shuts the door, experience tells me to double check. I shout to him, "You'll really call, right?"
He nods, reassuringly and I know that was all just really a formality. This was the magical first date I'd be telling our grandchildren about. When I get home, I float to bed.
This is real. So I begin to plan our future.
I will finally have someone to go to the Arclight with. Someone to force me to go on hikes. Someone who will put his arm around my waist as we watch the latest series I recommend on Netflix.
Five days after the date, without any word from him, I text him an inside joke from our date.
"Is this the number for CVS?"
I sit on the couch, watching TV, watching my phone, and slowly my thoughts slide from confident all the way down to insecure.
Four days after that, I realize that he's either dead or he is uninterested, which in my current state of mind is arguably more devastating.
I'll never know the reason he didn't call. There may not be one. But I've never been more sure. And never so very wrong.
Lisa B. Palmer is a freelance writer, middle school teacher and sarcastic tweeter.
L.A. Affairs chronicles romance and relationships. Past columns are archived at latimes.com/laaffairs. If you have comments to share or a story to tell, write us at firstname.lastname@example.org.