I’m flirting with the server.  I think he’s flirting with me.  I’m pretty sure that’s a romantic tension I feel.  (It’s so surreal to learn these signals all over again.)

He makes eye contact.  He remembers me from last time, though it was over a month ago.  Impressive.

He has a great smile.  Smile is important to me; I love a smile that can go all the way to his eyes.

He offered me the wine list, and I always look, as if I’m actually going to drink a glass of wine.  I wish I could.  But I don’t know what will happen if I do.  My world goes fuzzy and wordless with one glass of wine.  But still I pretend.  I peruse through the menu, as if I might order.  As if I simply cannot choose between the white, red or rose.  As if I know what these french words mean.  As if I’m looking at anything more than the price.

John brought the dessert menu as well. They have electronic menus here.  Ipads.  Mini iPads.  Impressive.  I looked it over; he had said they just changed their menu today, so I want to make sure the dessert I choose is still available.  Sure enough, there it is.

John came back to the table and said with a smile, “Do I know what you’re going to order?”

“Maybe you do.  Guess.”

“Profiterole?”  He is charming.  And he is right.  I respond as if he has just made a rabbit appear from his hat, or perhaps made his glittery assistant disappear.

Yep.  Pretty sure that’s a romantic tension I feel.

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