Sunday Night Man and I had our date Saturday.
It had all the hallmarks of a date I'd want to have. Cold, snowy night. My date taking charge in the kitchen while I find a jazz station on the radio, light candles, pour wine. Conversation and making out on the couch. Sleeping in the next morning, waking up hip-to-hip and making out some more. He tossing scrambled eggs with spinach and feta as I prepare notes for my rehearsal, before driving me to the train station so I can go to rehearsal, kissing me goodbye. Promising me that he'll show me his egg-scrambling technique the next time we're together.
Totally OK, really, that it'll probably be another month before we have another date.
Realized that it was enough to have a good date, go on our respective ways, and then reconnect when we feel like having another one. Shocked myself, really, with how OK I am. As in I'm not in any way faking this OK-ness.
(And it's so convenient, because that's all he wants, too.)
Not sure if it is because I realized this is the level that Sunday Night Man and I are meant to be at and don't desire more. Or if I don't desire more from a date than this, period.
Surely, I must?
Or maybe my latent cynicism doth render me numb to higher expectations.