After an awkward introduction replete with shot nerves and attempts to conceal dizzying glee, we settled into our seats. I calmed the knots in my stomach, reminding myself to breathe and then smile. 

He and I— we sat across from each other, separated by the barrier of Ikea furniture. Through heavy lashes hidden behind a mask of the restaurant’s beverage menu, I caught glimpses of the man who was going to be my future husband. It's an odd kind of intimacy. Sharing space with a stranger who’s meant to become your everything. 

We waited for the bustle to subside. The rush in the restaurant around us buzzed with an urgency that we alone did not share. His words, a corrupted signal lost to the din of the cafeteria noise, didn’t quite reach my ears. Having asked him to repeat what he had said twice already, made me hesitant to do so a third time. 

Besides, I could very well guess what he had meant to say. Something about college education not being the best of experiences. Mine hadn’t been either, I wanted to add, but he had already moved on to tell another story. Another tale, this one a riveting anecdote about where his undying love for cats came from. He told me how this one time he had almost run over one, but then tormented by the incident had taken her home. He’d searched for someone who he could entrust the creature in his possession. It took a month’s time but he finally found a perfect home for her. He recalled the incident with such intensity, it almost sounded like a religious experience. 

“It had to be perfect lest she would run away again and get run over by someone else’s car. What a tragic end would that be?” An earnest grin spread across his otherwise plain face. I smiled a warm smile in response. Then pondered over the words “perfect home”. 

“What about you?” He finally asked. 

My ears propped up. “What about me?” I was taken aback by the attention. I wasn’t spacing out, I was merely listening. Quite intently at that, and perhaps I was listening a little too intently, I completely forgot I was part of the conversation. 

“I love cats, yeah,” I responded with a vigorous nod. I did, too, but I was certain I hadn’t answered his question. 

“Yeah?” He beamed with a charming smile. “You’re not lost in thoughts at all.” 

I wanted to make some schoolgirl excuse for getting caught, but I bit my tongue seeing the waiter waddle towards our table. Perfect timing. I let the pounding in my chest ebb to the pressing matter of deciding what to eat. 

The restaurant was one of those open-air, bohemian places with wooden exteriors and bare-brick ovens. It smelled like cinnamon and burnt chocolate. It had been his recommendation, and I had approved. 

In another one of our long pauses in conversation, I noticed we were the only couple in the family restaurant. The noises consisted of crying infants, the chirping birds outside, some far-away click-clack of stilettos, and the crescendo of the steam hissing in the restaurant’s kitchen in the back. 

I observed a mother of two lugging her children around in the park across the street. The baby on her back cried, perhaps from the heat, and the girl in the ponytail tiptoed at her side with cotton candy in her hand. It made me think of children, of bearing them. Then in an unintended glance in his direction, I noticed him fiddling with his phone. My brain had already made many leaps in reasoning by that time.   

After an adequate amount of time, the waiter finally emerged with our beverages. Camomile tea, mine. Coffee, black, his. I was in love with the afternoon, and I wondered quite earnestly whether he did too. Something about its ease, its effortlessness made me yearn for it to last.

By the time we were halfway down our drinks, we were engaged in a heated exchange about music. Somewhere between discussing Tchaikovsky, Chopin, and Bach, he divulged that, despite his rugged appearance, he was quite the sensitive guy. I found the statement to be perplexing, to say the least, but I smiled understandingly, not letting it show. The “rugged appearance” was perhaps entirely lost on me. As for the “sensitivity”, one that was veiled under a tough exterior which was what I figured he had meant, was a welcome occurrence. I had been subject to cold-heartedness for far too long. Sensitivity felt like home. 

I buried my thoughts as he elaborated on how music made him cry like a little boy. I chuckled at the way he had said it as though it were an astounding revelation. I noticed how he aged backward to a teenage version of himself. We both agreed that music was transcendental, capable of transporting us to better places than here and now and fist-bumped at disliking Skrillex. 

“Kids these days and their loud taste in music.” 

He complimented my smile. I immediately felt the heat rise in my cheeks as I thanked him. In the moment of silence that followed, I inevitably imagined us together. Happy. In a future far away. 

Across the street, the mother with the kids had already crossed the busy road and now disappeared into a narrow alley to their right. 

“I’m in love with this city,” he said. In his throaty voice which I was beginning to love. He talked about the beautiful drive home by the sea from his office downtown, he talked about the unassuming people of the city, about their hospitality. All I could think of as he spoke was the curl of his lips as he sipped his coffee. 

I asked him if he lived with his family. He didn’t. Then he explained how he rarely missed them, thanks to the city keeping him entertained. We asked for the bill, and when it arrived, we reached for it at the same time. I insisted we share the expense, but he wouldn’t have it so I surrendered and let him pay. 

“Just one more of those smiles would be worth it.” He said as he snapped the booklet shut. 

My face flushed at the remark and a reflexive smile replaced it. He seemed pleased by that. All too quickly, we hugged and parted ways. I was in my cab in no time. On the drive home, my brain stormed with the thoughts of him. Prospects of sharing a future with him kept my mind busy. 

Of all the times I was told I was too old-fashioned to believe in arranged marriages. And now, giddiness bubbled in my chest at the thought of a ‘perfect home’.

Flyover streetlights whirred past outside the car window and I thought of him a little more with each passing one.