'There you are.' It comes out of my mouth before I can stop it and it's all I can do to steer the words in a more playfully casual direction so he isn't saddled with the importance I've placed on them. We lock eyes and he smiles with recognition and there's a disarming kindness to his face and suddenly I'm standing in front of him. Three perfect seconds to enjoy the calm that has so long eluded me.Īnd then he casually lifts his head and turns my way and uses one foot to push himself off the wall he is leaning agains. But I no longer have time to worry about what this feeling is, whether I should or shouldn't be her, or should or should't be wearing yellow pants, because there are only maybe three perfect seconds where I see him and he has yet to spot me.

This is just a man leaning against a stall that sells giant eggplants. This-whatever this feeling is-can't be a real feeling, this can't be a tangible connection. Yet here is this warm hug that makes me feel safe with this person, this Byron the maybe-poet, and I want it to stop. My knees don't buckle, my heart doesn't skip, but I'm awash in the warmth of a valium-like hug.

They're straining to define a feeling of stunning comfort that drips over me, as if a water balloon burst over my head on the hottest of summer days. I don't understand them, these words, because they seem too deep and too soulful to attach to the Farmers Market, this Starbucks or that, a frozen yogurt place, or confusion over where to meet a stranger. And when I round the last stall-someone selling enormous eggplants, more round than oblong, I see him, casually leaning against a wall, and something inside my body says there you are. I thin about canceling, or at least delaying so I can go home and change, but the effort that would require is unappealing, and this date is mostly for distraction. They're rolled at the cuff and paired with a navy polo and it looks like maybe I just yacht my yacht, and I'm certain to come off as an asshole. Really? Sometimes I don't know what I'm thinking. And the place is packed and there's still the uncertainty about where to meet when I look down and realize I'm wearing yellow pants. “I weave through LA's famous Farmers Market, which is really more of an outdoor food court, and now I'm a few minutes late.

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