Waltz Time - Entry 6 - The First Date

 Waltz Time — Entry 6

The First Date

“The beauty of anticipation is that it carries both memory and hope in the same breath.”

As I was getting ready for our date, I felt myself growing anxious. It wasn’t the kind of anxiety that comes from fear—more like anticipation, like standing in the wings before stepping onto a stage. I hardly knew you. We’d exchanged a few words, shared a moment outside the audition studio, and yet here I was, nervously choosing earrings like it mattered.

You’d suggested we meet at a restaurant near 42nd Street—somewhere on the West Side, tucked into the base of a residential high-rise closer to 10th Avenue. I remember thinking, Why here? There were dozens of restaurants around Hell’s Kitchen, so many places buzzing with energy and theater people. This spot seemed… hidden. Quiet. A little off the beaten path.

When I arrived, you were already there, waiting with that big smile. And just like that, my shoulders dropped. Something about your energy—calm, warm, real—made me feel like I could exhale. Someone this nice can’t be real, I thought.

I’d dated before, of course. But so many of those relationships had felt like performances—scenes I was playing in, or managing, or trying to fix. With you, even in that first hour, there was no script.

We were seated in a quiet corner, and after the menus were placed in front of us, you asked, 

“What would you like to drink?”
“I’ll have a glass of dry white wine,” I said, trying to sound composed.

You smiled and said, “Same. Something crisp. Clean.”

Then you added, “I wanted us to come here because it’s calm. It’s one of those places you only find if someone tells you about it.”
And I understood what you meant. You weren’t trying to impress me—it was a place to talk, a little quiet in the noise.

And in that moment, sitting across from you in a dimly lit corner of a place no one else seemed to know about, I started to wonder: Could this be the beginning of something different?

We ordered dinner—grilled salmon, both of us. You smiled when I said my choice and said, “Same.” There was something sweet about that moment, like we were in sync without trying.

As we ate, I noticed you watching me between bites. Not in a way that made me uncomfortable—but with a softness, a quiet curiosity. And then, mid-meal, you said it: 

“You know, you’re really beautiful.”

It wasn’t the wine—I knew that much. The warmth that rose in my chest and bloomed across my face came from something else entirely. I looked down, smiled, and let out a quiet, uncertain laugh, unsure what to do with that kind of tenderness.

“Thank you,” I said, eyes flickering up to meet yours. “That’s so sweet of you.”

The truth was, I didn’t think of myself that way. I was more accustomed to fading into the background, to being the one who carried things, managed feelings, made things work. Beauty had never felt like mine to claim. I was reserved, careful. You saw through that, even then.

We drifted into a deeper conversation, touching on our upbringings without lingering too long in the past. I remember asking, 

“Why did you come to New York at such a young age? That couldn’t have been easy.”

You paused and looked at your fork, then said quietly, “Let’s just say... I needed a change.”

A change. I wondered what that meant. A change from what? From who? But I didn’t press. Something told me that when you were ready to say more, you would. So I nodded and shifted the conversation to something lighter.

We talked about teachers—ones we admired, ones who drove us crazy. I mentioned I was looking for a new vocal coach, and you had a few suggestions. You even pulled out a pen and jotted down a name on the back of a napkin.

When the server returned to ask about dessert, I politely declined. The night had been lovely, but I had an early class the next morning—and a night shift at the restaurant.

You smiled again, almost as if you’d been holding something in, and said, “By the way—that tour I was hired for? It got cancelled.”

I blinked. “Oh no… that’s too bad.”

You shrugged, not missing a beat.
“It’s okay. Some things change because something better is around the corner.”

That stayed with me. The way you said it. Not bitter. Not disappointed. Just… trusting. As if life had its own rhythm, and you’d learned to dance with it instead of against it.

And I thought, 'Maybe I could learn something from him.' 

Looking back now, I realize that moment—that night—was the beginning of a quiet shift in me. Not because of romance, or timing, or the way your eyes lingered on mine across the table. But because I saw something in you I hadn’t yet claimed in myself:

Hope without proof. Faith without fear.

You reminded me that beginnings don’t always announce themselves with fireworks. Sometimes, they slip in softly, over salmon and dry white wine, in a corner of a restaurant no one else seems to know.

And maybe that’s what I needed most: not a grand leap, but a thread. One I could follow.

💖