For the first time in what seemed like forever, I had a date. A full out, take me out to dinner, butter me up with wine, kiss me goodnight, wonder if I'll invite him in, date.

I wasn't sure I could even remember my last first date. And I definitely couldn't remember feeling this anxious. I'd changed outfits three times. At first, it had been a showy camisole and jeans, with pointy, black FMP's over the pants to the knee. It had seemed too casual, so I'd thrown the camisole off, changed to a pair of open-toed heels, and stuffed myself into the little black dress, hoping it went with jeans. Then, as soon as I'd smoothed out the wrinkles and stared at the jeans in the mirror, I'd pulled them off in a rush and run into the bathroom to shave my legs. God, why hadn't I shaved my legs earlier? There was likely to be some suggestive groping, if not a horizontal tango between the sheets (also a possibility) and things like that should not involve hairy legs. And what if I did invite him in afterwards? I couldn't exactly excuse myself to the bathroom because I had hairy legs.

My hair was up in a slightly mussed bun (you just weren't Jersey if your hair wasn't mussed), my eyes dusted with a shade of deep red, with kohl framing my bottom lids, and just enough coats of mascara on my lashes. My lips I'd stained red, and the hoops in my ears were silver to match the necklace hanging between my breasts. My cleavage, what little I had, was maximized with the magic of Victoria's Secret, and as I stared at myself in the mirror, I played anxiously with my clutch, opening and closing it in a twitchy rhythm, occasionally taking something out or putting something in.

"Okay," I said to the empty room. "You are not freaking out here. You are thinking rationally. You're fine." If only I could get myself to really think like that, I'd be okay. I was going to make a fool of myself. I always made a fool of myself, of course…but now was different. I wanted this to go somewhere. I wanted a relationship.

I checked the clock. Five minutes to 8. I threw one last glance into the mirror, and, on impulse, took my cell out and threw it on my dresser. No interruptions, my mind was telling me. You want this. You like this guy, and this date is important. That done, I wobbled on jelly-legs into the kitchen, and stooped by Rex's cage, reaching into a nearby bag for a Cheez Doodle. I dropped it into his cage, and he scuttled backwards out of his can. He sniffed the Doodle, and then took a bite, his beady black eyes turned up to me.

"Okay, so I'm nervous. I don't remember ever actually dating a guy. I mean, what do I do? Usually I just meet guys, do the whole sexual tension thing, and sleep with them. Maybe afterwards we'll go on a few dates. But this is a date date. At least that's what he said."

Rex nibbled at the Doodle some more, eyes still on me. What was with that, anyway? Why was I always the one being stared at?

"I don't know date date protocol. Can you invite someone in on a first date? I mean, he's hot. Super hot. Rip his clothes off and hope he'll ravish you hot. I've already made assumptions about him, and I like him. Is it weird to invite him in? Or…what if the date's awesome but one of us sucks in bed?" Rex continued to stare at me. "Okay, so what if I suck in bed? Do you wait until you're already committed to have sex?" This, of course, meant buy a box of condoms sex, not one night, hot, sweaty, tomorrow-we're just-friends sex.

With one final glance at me, he stuffed the rest of the Cheez Doodle into his mouth and scuttled back into the can. And yet again. I'm always the last one left in a conversation.

"Yeah," I said. "Thanks."

The microwave clock said one minute till. Dusting the powdered cheese off my fingers onto a towel, I smoothed the dress down once more. I was suddenly very worried that the dress was too "come-and-get-it." God, he was going to think I wore it so that he would come and get it.

The thing was, I was pretty sure I wanted him to come and get it.

The doubts won over, and I moved forward, toward my room and a different dress. Or the jeans.

Then there was a knock at the door. No time for a less forward dress. I stared up at the ceiling, cursing God and all that was holy that this man had to be on time, then nervously reached for my clutch on the countertop. Rex stuck his head out of the can, and I sighed. "Wish me luck."

He blinked at me, twitched his nose twice, and backed into the can again.

I walked toward the door, brushing a curl from my face, and peeked through the peephole. No one was there.

"You have to open the door."

I sighed. "So I can't back out because you don't meet my standards?"

"You have standards I couldn't meet?"

"I might."

It struck me how stupid I was being. We were being.

"This is stupid. We're talking through the door."

He reads minds. I gave another sigh, and turned the door handle, swinging the door open.

He proffered a rose that matched my eye shadow, and smiled at me, his grin wide and brilliantly white. I was very conscious of the fact that my knees might give out at any moment. Three inch heels would have been much more appropriate than the four-and-a-half I was currently shaking in.

I started at his feet, taking in every detail. His shoes were black, looking like a mixture between comfort and style, totally understated. The rest of him wasn't. He wore black slacks that formed to his body at the hips. And then I was wondering if I'd get him out of the pants. The way he was looking at me made me feel like it was a very high possibility. Over the black slacks, he wore an almost maroon sweater that shaped to his torso in a way that mystified me more than usual. I couldn't exactly figure out why it mystified me, because all his shirts fit him like that. One sleeve was rolled up just enough to expose the expensive looking watch that clung to his wrist. His eyes were scanning my form as well, but he seemed fixated on something below my head. I smiled at the way his hair curled at his ears, looking newly cut.

His eyes caught mine, and he smiled teasingly at me. "Am I up to standards?"

I covertly checked to make sure there was no drool, and made a noise low in my throat that might have been a purr.

He chuckled, and I self-consciously smoothed the skirt against my thigh again. His eyes followed the movement, darkening before they reached mine again. "You look beautiful."

I searched for something to say. My brain catalogued conversation topics, but, as usual, it wasn't connected to my mouth. "We match."

He elegantly raised an eyebrow.

"Is that, like, a sign or something? An omen? Maybe we shouldn't go out tonight. I mean, we match. We're both black and red. That's not good. And…I'm kind of freaked out. I haven't been on a first date since college, and—."

"I haven't been on a first date in a while either," he said, still smiling at me. "We'll just have to wing it."

I nodded slightly, brushing hair back again. I slid out into the hallway, shutting the door. I giggled anxiously. "You still want to go out with me after that crazed rant?"

His lips turned up again, and he slid his hand into mine, mocha skin smooth against my own cream-colored hands. "C'mon Babe. We have a reservation."

Ranger tugged at my hand, his fingers dancing circles across the soft underside of my wrist. I pulled the key from the lock and slipped it into my clutch, my eyes moving down, my head tilting as he walked slightly in front of me, pulling me towards the elevator.

"I know what you're doing, Babe."

I jerked my head up, pulling up that false bravado that Ranger could always see right through. "Who said I didn't want you to know?"