Ok with it

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.