I wore my black slacks today.

We met in the Java Loft at Hastings so I could introduce her to my favorite hot drink. I was a little nervous that she might not take to it, but she loved it, as I'd hoped, and expected. Chai Tea is good stuff, especially with a splash of vanilla.

It was the first time we were to meet face-to-face after a few weeks of e-mails on MySpace. We knew enough about each other at that point, I think, to have a general idea what to expect from one another, but speaking together in person for the first time was still exciting.

She sat at a small table by herself, looking very pretty, and very much like a nervous girl who is trying hard not to look nervous. I thought it was cute, and flattering, and maybe a touch unnerving. After all, I'm just some regular guy - what in the world did she have to be nervous about? Had I unintentionally given her expectations that I couldn't have ever lived up to? Would she find me unattractive in person? Would she find my voice annoying? Did my clothes match?

A rush of anxieties overcame me then, and suddenly I was the one forcing, perhaps feigning, confidence. But our eyes had already met, I was only a few paces away, and my feet kept carrying me forward. It was much too late to worry. Or, at least, much too late for worrying to do any good.

It was clear we recognized each other right away in that somewhat crowded coffee shop, but I still cocked my head slightly, put on my best half-smirk. "Becca?" I asked. She nodded curtly, and mostly succeeded at preventing a shy smile from spreading across her face. I offered my hand courteously, and introduced myself by name. I took the seat opposite her at the little table. My smile shone.

There were only a few moments of dialogue behind us, but I had already felt at-ease. Talking to Becca was easy. She was very attentive and interested, and, thankfully, receptive to my quirky sense of humor. She liked to finish my sentences for me, and then say something like, "right... right" rather often when I was speaking, I noticed. It was something I wasn't used to, but I didn't mind it at all; I could tell it was her way of showing that she was interested. I laughed inwardly sometimes when she spoke, because she had the tendency to begin making a point, growl in frustration as she struggled to find the words to express herself, and then ask, "you know what I mean," while squinting her eyes. It was undeniably adorable, no doubt about it. I stood up, and then ordered our drinks.

Was there something I could have done to stop staring into her emerald eyes? Short of consciously forcing myself to look away, I was helpless. When her irises weren't captivating me, her eyelashes were. They were so long. They curved just so, upward on top, and downward on bottom, creating an elegant, dark vignette that made the color in her eyes all the more prominent. She was dazzling. The drinks were ready. Getting up from the table again, I was temporarily freed of my new, embarrassing staring problem.

We must have sat there together for nearly an hour, sipping Chai Tea and advancing from small talk to more detailed accounts of past relationships and the like. She was cool. I liked her. I invited her to have some dinner at Chili's. She declined, but not in a way that suggested rejection.

"Well," I thought, "there's always next time."