LOVE AT FIRST DATE

Chapter 7: The Stroll

A few steps into their four-block journey, Tony transferred Michelle from the outside of the sidewalk to the inside. It was an act of chivalry that went back to the era of horse-drawn carriages, even before the days of the Old West, his Dad had explained to him when he was about six. Men walked on the outside, closest to the street, so that if a carriage splashed puddle water up at passers-by, the man's clothes would absorb the brunt of it, not the woman's. Likewise, if a dangerous incident were to occur in the street, the woman would be the better protected of the two. Tony hadn't questioned the custom at the time, nor did he now. It seemed right for the guy to take the hit, so he always walked on the outside, just as his Dad and every other Almeida male before them had done.

But the significance of the act seemed to take on new meaning as he switched positions with Michelle now. While other women would always ask him what he was doing and why he had done it, Michelle appeared to already know; she had even seemed to anticipate it coming. It made him smile, realizing that she, too, must have been raised by the same old-fashioned code of behavior — also known as basic manners — which was fast and regrettably becoming extinct, Tony would often notice. He missed those niceties that men used to do for women, but which most were too terrified to perform anymore for fear of being clubbed with a fully loaded briefcase by an ultra-militant feminist predisposed to perceiving such well-intentioned gestures as acts of war.

As he took Michelle's hand back into his own and slid his other hand into the front pocket of his jeans, a memory soared into his head of nearly two decades ago, when the feminist movement had finally seen the fruits of its labor blossom into hard, statistical results throughout the 1980's. Tony, about nineteen or twenty at the time, had approached his Dad's office building one afternoon and deliberately held himself back from opening the door for a woman in front of him, who looked only a couple of years older and strikingly attractive. But door-opening had already been deemed taboo, and although Tony had never really understood why, he knew he had to abide by the edicts set forth by "the movement" if he wished to avoid being "briefcased" and possibly rendered incapable of reproducing thereafter.

But it was such an exceptionally heavy door, and it had so grated at his conscience to just stand there while she struggled with it, that he finally gave in and swung it open for her. As a token of her gratitude, she had promptly thanked him with a 20-second lecture on how Neanderthals, such as himself, had better start getting used to the fact that the so-called "weaker sex" was just as capable of opening a door as he; how the days of men ruling the world — translation: of ruling her — were officially over; and that if he ever wanted to "get into the pants of another woman in his lifetime," he'd be wise to start getting with the program and respecting the wishes of "today's women."

He chuckled to himself now as he recalled how, only mere hours later, the same woman didn't seem to mind when he'd opened her bedroom door for her. Nor had she balked when he took the lead in the meaningless sex they'd engaged in that afternoon. She'd invited him at one point to feel free to get a little rough with her, explaining that she was "into that." He wasn't, but remembered thinking how stiflingly hypocritical her mindset was: She had lectured him for daring to exhibit physical dominance over her with regard to a legitimately heavy door, yet at the same time was "into" men literally physically dominating — if not outright abusing — her in bed. As she later scrolled her telephone number on the palm of his hand on his way out the door, she had assured him that while his caveman ways were fine and dandy in the sack, she would have to insist that he respect her 20th-century views, values and persona when in public with her the next time. There would be no next time, he'd already decided, and immediately rubbed her number off his hand the minute he'd hit the street. It was the same hand that was now wrapped gently around Michelle's, he realized with a smile.

He could laugh at it now, but being automatically pigeonholed as a chauvinist pig for having the audacity to practice basic manners had bothered him immensely back then. Granted, he did indeed feel that most men were superior to most women in terms of physical strength, because... well, they just plain were. It was an undeniable, inarguable anatomical fact that women did not possess the same upper-body configuration, hence the strength, of men. Women possessed their own upper-body configuration, one in which Tony had always adored. But in terms of intellectual capacity, never once had he ever perceived women as mentally inferior in any way. He'd simply never been raised to think that way. In fact, throughout his Dad's entire career, some of his most valued right-hand men had been women, and decades before it would eventually become the do-or-get-sued credo of fellow corporate-American CEO's.

After his short-lived hit-and-run romance with the hypocritical bombshell, Tony had suddenly found himself studying his Mom and Dad's interactions whenever he'd come home from college. They'd always struck him as an exceptionally harmonious and devoted couple. He thought about all the times his Dad, for instance, would threaten to kill him anytime he'd ever made his mother cry. Making her cry was an act more egregious than sticking up a liquor store, as far as his Dad was concerned.

Tony had likewise taken note of how his Mom would always religiously take twenty minutes to pretty herself up before his Dad was due home from work: spraying on perfume; changing into something soft and feminine; donning a necklace or bracelet his Dad had given her at one time or another. It was a regimen he couldn't recall her ever having skipped. Not even when she was always so exhausted during those last two hell-months of pregnancy with his sister, when Tony feared she might literally explode if someone were to come within a mile of her with a pin. He'd taken keen notice, as well, of how his Mom had never once balked or hissed when his Dad opened a door for her, or pulled out her chair, or stood up whenever she entered the room — or when any woman entered, for that matter, including the housekeeper. Nor had his Dad ever indicated any intention or desire to dispense with his antiquated caveman ways.

There and then, Tony had made a personal commitment that he, too, would simply continue doing what felt right and came naturally to him, even if it meant that nine out of ten women were predestined to brand him a Neanderthal pig. He wasn't interested in those nine women anyway. He would patiently wait for the tenth.

He gazed over and smiled warmly at his tenth now — his "it" — who'd been walking quietly beside him all the while, thinking whatever she was thinking. He listened to her heels clicking softly and rhythmically against the concrete and gently squeezed the delicate fingers cupped comfortably inside his hand. Michelle looked up and returned his smile with an even warmer one, then went back to pondering God-only-knew-what while he allowed his eyes to linger a few moments longer studying her dress. She had made that dress expressly for his sake, to look pretty for him, it abruptly occurred to him for the first time. The realization set fireworks off inside of him and he suddenly found himself burning to introduce her to his parents; especially to his Dad, whom he already knew would slap him on the shoulder until it was raw for how well he had done for himself.

Michelle could feel his eyes still upon her. She looked back up again with a warm but curious smile this time.

"Should we be holding hands like this?" she asked, momentarily gazing beyond him at the cars whizzing by in the street.

"Yes," he cavalierly answered without missing a beat, exuding a level of self-confidence that made her laugh.

"No, I mean, what if someone from the office drives by and sees us?"

"Screw 'em," he smiled easily, noticing a familiar problem suddenly beginning to arise to the immediate right of the hand sitting in the front pocket of his jeans.

"Honey," she giggled, "we're gonna have to figure out how we want to handle this..."

"Handle what?"

"Us, dear. Our professional lives, for one thing… How we're gonna conduct ourselves in the office and such."

"Like we always do, baby... We're not at the office now, though," he reminded her, squeezing her hand this time with a slight sense of urgency, nudging her toward the alcove of a storefront to their right. "C'mere... I need you to do something for me," he said.

As he tugged her along into the shaded entryway, she quickly conducted a survey of the unique handmade pieces showcased in the windows on either side of them, assuming that he wanted to get her opinion on one item or another. But once inside the alcove, he immediately turned his back to the window instead, leaning against it and pulling her in close to him.

"Honey, what are you doing?" she giggled self-consciously, glancing back and forth between the shop's interior and the cars in the street as his arms wrapped her up in a firm embrace.

"Shush," he ignored her, placing a hand at the back of her head and bringing her cheek into the crook of his neck, then laying his own cheek to rest against her head. "I just wanna do this for a second..." he murmured, closing his eyes and wallowing in the sun-warmed coconut scent wafting up from her hair. It was his coconut scent. He had given that scent to her.

Michelle slid her arms inside his jacket and around his waist, quietly enjoying the tight, almost anxious hold he had on her, contrasted by the easy, gentle sway of his body now rocking barely noticeably from left to right. She moved a hand softly around his lower back, wondering what had compelled him to want to halt so abruptly and hold her so closely like this. She listened to a series of low sighs and sounds percolating at the base of his throat, concluding that he had probably just needed to stop and double-check that she was really there. She understood the feeling well and squeezed her arms a little tighter around his waist, silently complimenting him on his remarkably perfect sense of timing.

"What are you thinking about, honey?" she predictably asked after a blissful minute or two.

"Coconuts," he said quietly, eyes still closed and nuzzling his cheek into the ponytail-ish thing at the top of her head, letting his fingertips lightly stroke a couple of buttons on the back of her dress — his dress.

"The prawn in coconut milk?" she assumed, capitalizing on her uncanny ability to memorize a Thai menu at a glance; two glances in the case of a take-out menu printed in small type.

"Quiet," he replied softly, evoking a giggle from her over the abruptness with which he'd delivered his request. Tony seldom asked for what he wanted, she had noticed long ago; he generally demanded or just took it, whichever served as the easiest or fastest means of achieving his desired result.

He felt her giggling in his arms and smiled with self-deprecation, wholly aware of some of his more infamous social shortcomings, passed down with pride by his grandfather Almeida, who'd possessed even less patience than he.

As more time passed, Michelle was becoming convinced that he was well on his way to catching a quick midday nap on top of her head, until she felt him gather a handful of her ponytail and gently tilt her head back. His expression was warm and serene, but his eyes looked a little pained, she thought, as they had at the breakfast table when he couldn't quite figure out the quantum mechanics of curly hair.

"Kiss me that way again," he said, leaning in to brush his lips against her soft cheek. He loved the sensation it produced, accented by the creamy scent that emitted from her skin. "You know, baby… the way you did it last night. Remember?"

"I kissed you about a thousand times last night," she giggled shyly, suddenly cognizant of the elderly shopkeeper on the other side of the glass door. He had situated himself, hands on his hips, at the center of his store and was glaring at them as though they were holding up a crowd of would-be customers from stampeding through the door and buying him out.

"No, you remember the one," Tony continued anxiously, readjusting her head away from the door, like a puppeteer manipulating his marionette. He planted a brief kiss on her forehead in the hopes it might jar her memory somehow. "When I... that time I said I was so close and you stopped us... remember? And then we were resting for a minute?… The one right after that... Not the neck one, the lip one…"

Michelle remembered but let him go on, maintaining a quizzical look on her face as though still struggling to recall the moment. It thrilled her to know that he had evidently spent time quietly thinking about the kiss he was now hungering for her to recreate.

"You kissed me, like... really sweet and slow. You remember, baby," he insisted again with a growing edge of frustration in his voice, intermingling with a low-level whine.

She felt the shopkeeper's eyes on them again and turned her head slightly to the left, noting that the elderly man's wife had since joined him and was now, much to Michelle's relief, tugging at her husband's sleeve, trying to bring a halt to the international shooing-away gesture he was making with the backs of his hands. Michelle connected with the woman's eyes for a flash just before Tony steered her head back is his direction. He was either oblivious to the shopkeeper's existence, or couldn't care less about what was going on inside. Michelle was willing to bet the farm on the latter.

Quickly repositioning his fingertips at the sides of her temples now, Tony began anxiously demonstrating the kiss he was talking about, cupping his mouth over hers and moving his head in a dreamy side-to-side motion, gently sliding his lips across hers and slowly back again, the way she had done to him. Only she had done it so much better. There was a plumpness about her lips that enabled her to do things that his own lips couldn't begin to duplicate if somebody paid them.

"Ah… yeah. I sort of remember… I think," she smiled against his mouth, taking advantage while his eyes were still closed to catch another segment of the sideshow beyond the glass door. She felt a little embarrassed, actually: A thirtysomething making out in a doorway, like a hot-blooded fifteen-year-old, carried more of a spectacle quality than she really felt comfortable displaying in public.

The low, muffled sounds of a domestic spat, in a language that sounded to her like Italian, began seeping through the heavy glass. The squat little wife was now slapping her husband's forearm with one hand and giving Michelle the international pay-no-attention-to-my-unromantic-husband sign with the other. Michelle didn't even think Tony had noticed her eyes straining to watch the old couple, but without even breaking off his lip-sliding reenactment, or even so much as opening his eyes, he fished his leather-bound C.T.U. identification out of his jacket's right-front pocket and quickly flashed it in the shopkeeper's direction, slipping it back in just as quickly as he had snatched it out.

"Honey!" she said, breaking away from his lip-lock and giggling in amazement. "You're not supposed to do that! Not unless you're acting in an official capacity!"

"C'mon, you remember," he completely ignored her, looking anxiously into her eyes and gearing up for another live demonstration.

"What in the world do you think flashing your badge is going to accomplish anyway?"

"I don't know, honey. Most people just leave at that point… Were you paying attention to that, like, slide-thing? You were moving your lips kinda left to right… Remember?"

"Yes, I remember now, honey. You liked that one. I remember."

He loved that one. He loved every second of the very first time they had made love the night before. But that particular kiss, in that particular way, had thrilled him to the core and kept coming back to him all day. It was even the first thing he'd thought about when he'd awoken earlier on. Michelle had been curled up against him, still out cold and sleeping for another good half-hour longer, so he'd entertained himself by gazing at her and recalling the details of last night as best he could: how she'd asked him to pull over and kiss her; the drive to his apartment, which he still couldn't remember a minute of; the silent ride up the elevator, holding her the way he had just now held her a moment ago. He'd only gotten as far as peeling off his jacket in the living room when he'd somehow found himself resting on top of her in his bed, with no memory of how they'd even gotten there. He had perched himself up on his elbows to ease the pressure of his weight against her, but also to carefully study her eyes.

"Y'sure you're ready for this — to take this step, I mean?" he had asked her, burrowing his fingers into her hair and stroking the tips of his thumbs gently against the delicate rims of her ears. He wanted to know for certain that she was certain about what they were moments away from getting into, but didn't want to know, at the same time, for fear she might suddenly change her mind. But she had looked into his eyes so assuredly when she told him that it was one of the very few things in her life she was totally certain of. She'd then sent his heart instantaneously reeling when she giggled shyly and leaned her warm lips against his ear, bravely confessing that she had long ago created a fantasy of the way she imagined he would make love to her, which she had fine-tuned in her mind over the course of more nights than she could possibly begin to tally.

The idea alone of Michelle lying in her bed fantasizing about him had been enough to cut his breathing capacity in half. He'd invested so much time in trying to conceal his feelings from her that he hadn't allowed himself to think or wonder about where he might be fitting into her dreams. He knew precisely where she fit into his own: To the singular fantasy she had meticulously honed in her mind, he had about forty, most of which he would never have the courage to share with her in a million years. But Michelle had stunned him when she bravely began to tell him all about her own.

So much of those first moments were a blur to him now. Her shy words and quivering touch had thrown him into a deep daze. The next thing he was able to recall was raising himself up and sitting back on his heels to unbutton his shirt, and how she'd gotten onto her knees and gently halted him before he'd even unfastened the first one.

"No... me," she had smiled shyly, taking his wrists and guiding his hands down to rest against his thighs. She wanted to do it herself, she explained, too bashful at that point to say it to his eyes. After having envisioned herself opening his buttons so many times in her dreams, she wanted to make it real, now that she was finally with him, she'd confessed as her cheeks blushed wildly out of control. He had wanted to tell her how incredibly excited and flattered and special her revelation had made him feel, but a heavy moan had gripped the pit of his throat. So he just quietly listened and gazed instead, mesmerized as she courageously ventured onward, demonstrating how she would always undo his buttons starting at the top and ending with his cuffs. He thought about how hard his heart had begun to pound in his chest, and how quickly and thickly his eyes had glazed over, feeling her nervous fingers fiddling with each button in tandem with her shy description of how she had always seen the moment happening.

His hands were trembling against his thighs and he'd rubbed the moisture from his palms before leaning forward to kiss her. But as his lips tried to connect with hers, she had brought him to a gentle halt again.

"No, umm…" she giggled, able to glance shyly at his eyes by then, though only just barely and briefly. "You don't kiss me yet. I, umm... first I slide your shirttails out," she illustrated, slipping them free from their mooring, then placing her quivering hands against his chest.

His heart had alternated between pounding and melting as she'd gone on to timidly demonstrate how she would always then ease her palms slowly down to his stomach, her thumbs following the silky path of hair that led to his belt and beyond. She would slide her palms back up just as slowly, she'd explained with flat hands pressed gently against his skin. She let them slither with excruciating slowness through the thick nest covering his chest, eventually gliding over to skim his hard nipples, watching and feeling them sliding beneath and between her fingertips. His panting steadily grew more pronounced as she eased her hands up to the area she'd described to him as her nemesis — the familiar patch of chest hair that stared out from his shirt at her every day; teasing and taunting her; making her burn to know what the rest of him looked like beneath the fabric that audaciously hid his body from her view.

Her bashful words in synch with her hungry touch had made it impossible for him to keep his breath even or his groans at bay.

"Then what happens, sweetheart..." he had asked her in a labored whisper, unable to find his full voice at that moment. He'd wanted so badly to touch her, but had kept his hands perched where she had positioned them in her dream until she'd described where she would always then see them going, and what he would always do with them next.

He had breathlessly followed as she shyly moved him along through each sensuous step and fine detail of her most private thoughts and wishes. Entrusting him with her secrets had been enough to warm his soul to the core, but sharing them had also enabled him to fulfill his own innermost, aching desire — to know what hers were and to bring them to fruition.

His excitement had heated and elevated to levels he'd never known were attainable until she had begun venturously touching, consuming, and exploring him in ways that had made his brain burn. He had felt his teeth throb and his skin crackle as though she had thrown a switch and electrified it. His hunger to taste and satiate himself in all the warmest and most sacred parts of her body had been fed to the gills; his ability to thrill and tantalize her body with his own had been tested and met a thousand times over as she'd gasped and moaned and whimpered the things she had always wanted from him; where she burned for him to touch and explore her; how she wanted to hear him describe to her certain sensations he felt when she would do this or that to him, or he to her. He'd feverishly granted every little thing she had intimated or asked of him, all the while begging to know what she had envisioned them doing next.

"Tell me," he'd whispered over and over throughout each leg of the extraordinarily intimate, sensually perfect journey she had created for them. "Tell me what you want, baby," he'd softly pleaded at times when her breath had become too labored to speak, or her words too fractured to discern anymore. He had improvisationally filled in the blanks at those junctures, sometimes following wherever her feverish body gestures would steer him; sometimes sensing the things she was thinking and seeking from him; other times knowing precisely the sensations she wanted them to experience together, and at the pace and depth and intensity level he instinctually knew she would want them to feel; each time hungering to deliver every motion and moment to her in the way she had always seen them unfold.

He had reached the point so many times of barely being able to hold it together a moment longer. He ached to fulfill the vision she had breathlessly whispered to him, of how slowly she had always imagined him entering her, just a little at a time. He had paused between every torturously slow injection of his body, allowing hers to savor the sensation each new addition would introduce; moving again a moment later when he'd feel her body clench him tightly, asking for more. His inhibitions had long since left him. He'd allowed himself to cry out from the heat that met and overwhelmed him every feverish inch of the way, and the blissfully agonizing friction that ensued throughout his gradual buildup in pace and force.

When he'd felt himself getting a little too perilously close to the edge at one point and had paused for a moment to pull it together, he'd been surprised to see how apprehensive she'd suddenly become, as though convinced that it was only a matter of seconds before her long-held vision of their mutually climatic moment together was doomed to inevitably shatter into ruination.

"Please wait… Please… I'm so close," she had breathlessly pleaded with him, with a tinge of panic noticeably present in her voice and embrace.

"I know, baby, I can feel you," he'd whispered against her ear in a low, soothing voice, kissing away a tear that had spilled from the corner of her eye; assuring her that he was right there with her; promising that he wasn't going anywhere without her; that he would wait until she was ready for him. It had been only too painfully obvious that her sudden alarm had stemmed from deep-rooted disappointments in her past. The thought of others emotionally abandoning and ignoring her needs upon selfishly satisfying their own had eaten away at him, but it also fortified his resolve to bring her stunningly erotic vision to reality if it killed him in the process. It was their first time — that ever-memorable "first time" that they would never get to have a second shot at — and he wanted it to be perfect for her and for them.

He had gently stroked her hair, somehow maintaining a soothing, calming tone as he made her promise not to worry anymore. He had waited until her words and expressions, and a believable smile had convinced him that her fears had genuinely subsided, then kissed her cheeks and forehead before gathering her back up, tight in his arms. As he'd slowly found and resumed the pace she wanted for them and had set for him, he vowed to himself to hang tough for her. Her shyness juxtaposed with the bravery she'd exhibited, and the exorbitant trust she had placed in him; her exquisite softness and scents; her desire alone for him to make passionate love to her — it had all come together to fuel his masculinity beyond the limits. He'd never felt more virile and potent; his muscles had never felt fuller or strained harder; hormones and blood had never raged or coursed so fast or furiously; his moans and groans and vulnerable whimpers, fitful gasps and emasculating cries had never mass-produced and flowed from his lips so freely or shamelessly.

Where he had found the strength throughout those final moments, or how he had gotten his voice to sound so convincingly confident and controlled, he couldn't even begin to imagine. He must have tapped into a reservoir of strength he'd never even known he possessed or been called upon to unleash before. But someway, somehow, he had managed to make it happen. After that peak moment, when she had buckled hard in his arms and he'd exploded like fire at precisely that second, he wasn't quite sure if his body would ever stop pouring its contents out, or if his violent jerking and trembling would ever cease, or if it would even be possible to eventually shake off the disorientation wreaking havoc with his senses. Gasping hard to regain his breath, still stunned at the level of intimacy they'd shared, he had kissed away a few more tears that had spilled from her eyes, fighting all the while to corral his own.

Oh, good…

Shrewd planning, Almeida, he lambasted himself. He had three more blocks to walk in the condition he had just brilliantly and successfully managed to get himself into; plus, two crazy Italian people yelling at each other on the other side of the glass door, one directing his ire at him, the other directing her sympathy toward Michelle, who couldn't be more fascinated or fixated on the free vaudeville show playing out before her eyes.

He caught the shopkeeper's attention and reached over Michelle's shoulder, pointing across to the corner of the window that seemed most accessible from inside of the store. The shocked shopkeeper halted in mid-swear and bustled over to the window's opening, pointing to an item in the general vicinity that Tony had indicated and giving him the international is-this-the-one? sign. Tony confirmed with a nod of his head as he quickly dug a credit card out of his wallet and held it up to the little stout lady now bustling toward him. As she took the card she squeezed Michelle's arm, saying something in a thick Italian accent about how much Michelle was going to love it, and how fantastic it was going to look on the terrace.

"What did you get?" Michelle asked once the woman had waddled away to ring up the sale.

"I have no idea. Listen, sweetheart, I was gonna tell you the rest of—"

"You don't have a terrace."

"I know, honey. Who cares. Listen, about the end of the story... y'know, about Chris…"

"Do you want me to go in and exchange it for something else before she—"

"No, baby. C'mere," he said, pulling her into him again and feeling her inadvertently bump up against him. She looked at him, peered downward for a moment, then back up again with a frown.

"We have three more blocks to walk, y'know," she informed him, as if he weren't already painfully and acutely aware.

"Yes, honey, that's why God created sports jackets," he impatiently educated her. "But, listen... I was gonna tell ya the rest of the story in the restaurant, but I can't now 'cause of the surprise, so... umm... so anyway, Chris said that you know you're really in love when ya don't use a condom and ya don't care, 'cause if ya catch a deadly disease, ya wanna die, too, 'cause you don't wanna live without her. And then I told you that I love you, and then you said, 'Love you, too,' and then I—"

"Whoa, whoa... whoa... Back—back up, dear. And then you said what to me?" she asked in amazement, having barely comprehended the Chris part of the story, but now much more interested in the second half, which had poured out of his mouth with the speed of a runaway locomotive.

He looked away for a moment, apprehensively darting his eyes around in myriad directions before focusing them back on her again.

"That I love you," he blurted out nervously, but bravely and directly into her eyes. He suddenly felt a little paralyzed, however, and was also sure that his eyes had widened to at least the size of Michelle's, given the excessive amount of air he could suddenly feel rushing against them. He slid both hands into the front pockets of his jeans, primarily to check the degree of mobility he was convinced he had lost in his arms at the precise moment he had let those three words fly. Telling Michelle that he loved her had been so much easier when she was unconscious.

He stared down at her staring up at him, suddenly feeling like he was competing for the gold in some kind of new Olympian category. He glanced away long enough to unintentionally catch the little Italian lady's eye, who immediately began giving him the international you-two-are-going-to-make-beautiful-babies-someday sign, which was pressure he really didn't feel he needed at the moment.

"I, uhh… said it twice, in fact," he decided to add for reasons unknown even to himself. "And I said it before you said, 'Love you, too'... You said it really sweet like that... 'Love you, too,'" he babbled, trying to duplicate her inflection, though not pulling it off very well. "So, umm... anyway, you didn't break the code, or anything... That woman's code… I know you were concerned about that."

He was sweating. Like that was something new. He looked away again. He'd never felt so jittery in his life, not counting the first time he had said those words to her only a scant few hours ago. Nor had he ever sounded so mentally deficient in his life, as best he could recall.

He glanced back at Michelle's still-stunned expression, then turned his attention this time to a hand-painted switch plate in the window that he suddenly wished he had pointed to instead. His mind was racing. It hadn't gone as romantically as he wanted it to, but he'd gotten nervous in the middle. What could he do; he'd choked. These things happen sometimes at important moments like this, he comforted himself. Anyone in his position would've babbled it out just as unromantically and incoherently as he had.

Michelle was still looking somewhat stunned, though appeared to be coming around, he thought. He looked away again, figuring he'd give her another minute or two to absorb the shock of his finally having spit it out, and at a moment when she obviously hadn't expected it. At least he had managed to surprise her, he thought, giving himself credit for that much.

The shopkeeper provided the perfect distraction, hurrying through the door, cheerily waving the credit card and bill. Tony turned back to Michelle, determined to sound cool and in control this time.

"So, umm... you owe me two, by the way, since... y'know... I said it three times so far," he factually informed her, mindlessly clearing his throat as he pulled his paralyzed hands from his pockets.

He took the bill and pen from the shopkeeper, who promptly turned and offered his back for Tony to use as a desk. Michelle still hadn't moved many muscles as of yet, but Tony could see that her face had decidedly softened and was even beginning to take on a warm glow. He hurriedly scribbled his name, removed his copy, and passed the pen and the bill back over the man's shoulder. By now the little wife had joined the party, slinging the handles of a small yellow shopping bag over Michelle's wrist, reiterating how lovely the thing was going to look on the terrace… or the toilet. Tony couldn't be completely sure which.

His nervousness started rapidly diminishing as he watched an enchanting little smile inching its way across Michelle's face. Her eyes were beginning to sparkle a lot more, too, he could clearly see. He shot her a shy, self-conscious smile as he returned the credit card and receipt to his wallet and his hands to his pockets.

"Umm... Also, y'know, if ya wanted to get technical about it," he grinned, feeling appreciably more confident and even a little proud of himself, "I, uhh... I said all three words and you just said two of them... 'Love you'... That's two, not three. Plus, you were unconscious when you said it, while, umm… I, on the other hand, was fully conscious every time."

As her smile grew a little wider, so did his. He watched her drop her head down for a second, then bring it back up to him again, this time with sparkles distinctly and inarguably present in her eyes.

"Y'know, if you really wanted to get technical about things," she said analytically, with a wry smile, "I've loved you longer than you've loved me."

He cocked his head to the side and stared her down for a moment, sporting a grin just as wry as her own.

"I don't think so," he accepted the challenge, marveling at her ability to lighten the moment. It enthralled him the way she could manipulate his feelings like that, bringing him from one end of an emotional spectrum to the other in a flash, and with such great ease. His heart suddenly felt lighter and even safer in her care than it had before. He pulled a hand out of his pocket and reached for her forearm, pulling her a step closer to him. "I loved you about four minutes into meeting you," he stated for the record.

"It only took me two," she wasted no time in countering. "Maybe two and a half. But it definitely wasn't four."

His grin grew a little broader, but he leveled it down a bit.

"Yeah, well, now that I think about it... I fell in love with you when I saw your picture in your transfer file, before you even came in for a meeting."

"Ah..." she smiled, dropping her head and nodding for a moment before raising it up to him again. "Y'know, thanks for reminding me... The file... You're right. I distinctly remember, now, falling in love with you that afternoon you, Mason, and Chappelle were up to see Hammond… which was before I'd even filed for a transfer, if memory serves."

"Oh, I see," he sing-sang facetiously, turning her by the arm and guiding her out of the alcove and onto the sidewalk. "Well, I wasn't sure I ever wanted to tell ya this, 'cause it's a little spooky, but... since you've left me no choice… I fell in love with you when a vision of your face popped into my head in Math class, back in the tenth grade."

"Oh, my God… This is so chilling," she responded with high-sarcasm, pausing to return a wave to the couple who were now back behind the glass door, waving their heartfelt good-byes to her and Tony. "I drew a picture back in the second grade entitled, 'The Man I'm in Love With,' and it was the spitting image of you. It just struck me when you mentioned Math class... God, I have chills now."

Tony smiled and shook his head, then decided to wave at the elderly little couple, too, as long as he was already smiling anyway. Plus, it was only the polite thing to do, and Michelle would expect it of him. He locked eyes with the man and flashed him the international I'm-running-a-little-late-here-buddy-so-do-ya-think-we-can-wrap-this-up-soon sign, watching as the man promptly began steering his wife by the shoulders away from the door.

Tony reclaimed his position on the outside of the sidewalk and took Michelle's hand back into his.

"What's my surprise?" she asked.

"I'm not telling you so don't start," he responded.

"Fine. Then just give me a hint," she cajoled him, feeling her curiosity disease beginning to ail her again. She watched with excitement as he took a moment to think.

"It's better than a picture," he cryptically replied.

"Oh, that helps a lot," she complained.

"Be happy with it, 'cause it's all you're getting," he assured her, fully expecting her to bug him all the rest of the way to the restaurant. But, remarkably enough, she accepted her fate and strolled quietly alongside him up to the corner where they paused to wait for an opening in the traffic.

"Say it again," she smiled up at him with a challenge in her tone, deciding to get back at him by having him all but choke on those three words again. Besides, he definitely needed the practice, she quickly convinced herself as a means of justifying her evil revenge.

"I love you," he said clearly and without hesitation, not only successfully stunning her but himself in the process. It hadn't felt half as scary or nerve-racking to say it this time around, however; probably because he now knew for certain that Michelle officially loved him, too. "That's another one that ya owe me, by the way," he incidentally reminded her. "And you'll notice how all three words were there when I said it. Not two, but three."

She just smiled nonchalantly at the rookie, withholding any official concession or recognition of victory for the time being. She wasn't quite through with him yet, wondering for a moment if keeping those three words to a minimum of two for awhile might not be the perfect way to make him just as crazy as he had made her earlier, when she'd vowed to get him back someday.

The rookie read her mind, despite having insisted only hours earlier that he was wholly incapable of doing so. He chuckled to himself. Poor Michelle. She didn't realize that he never again had to hear her say that she loved him, just as long as he knew that she did. He would play along, however, pretending that it was driving him insane not being able to pry all three words consecutively loose from her mouth. These are the things you do when you're in love, after all. But he would have to come up with an alternate way of getting her back for that picture-she-drew-in-the-second-grade closer if he wished to add another notch to his victory post. He thought for a moment while they waited for the perfect mad-dash opportunity to present itself.

"You're my tenth, y'know," he casually informed her as they darted across the congested boulevard.

"Your tenth what?…" she asked, gripping his hand and keeping pace alongside him. He glanced at her and just smiled, allowing her curiosity to build and intensify. "What does that mean, your 'tenth'?… Tell me, honey…" she insisted, with the beginnings of frustration and brooding formulating in her voice. He gave her another glance and just smiled again.

This was getting way too easy, the rookie chuckled to himself, climbing behind the wheel of his mental formula racecar and firing up the engine for his victory lap.