Waltz Time – Entry 20: The Serenade and the Tacos

 Waltz Time – Entry 20: The Serenade and the Tacos

Some moments feel like crossing a threshold, not just into a place, but into the possibility of someone.

I remember standing outside your building that night, looking up at the rows of glowing windows stacked against the Upper West Side sky. A prewar building, steady and elegant, with iron railings and stonework that seemed to hold a thousand stories. Apartment 3A. Even the number felt like it belonged in a script.

I pressed the buzzer, your buzzer, and waited. A crackle, then your voice, warm and bright:

“Hey there! Come on up. Elevators to the left.”

Fancy, I thought.  A secure building, a buzzer, an elevator, so different from my little walk-up with the sticky lock and thin walls. I wasn’t jealous. Just aware. Maybe a tiny bit intimidated. But mostly… flattered. Invited.

My palms were sweating as I rode the elevator up. Truthfully, I hardly knew you. A few conversations, and intimate evening, your beautiful reaction to my news earlier that day. But something about you felt steady. Kind. Safe in a way I didn’t yet understand.

When the elevator doors opened, the first thing that hit me was the smell.  Mexican food — warm, spicy, comforting — drifting through the hallway in a way that made me instantly hungry and strangely emotional.

I knocked.  You opened the door almost immediately. Your smile was easy, unguarded, the kind that makes strangers feel like friends and friends feel like something more.

“Welcome to my apartment! Let me show you around.”

Your hallway stretched long and elegant, with high ceilings and built-in closets lining the right wall. I could see doors to other rooms on the left, pieces of your life I couldn’t see yet but already wanted to.

You led me into the kitchen first, the heart of a home. Black-and-white checkered floor, older cabinets with metal knobs, a large white but seemingly stained sink, a humming refrigerator, and a tall table with four matching chairs.

“Mmm… it smells delicious,” I said, inhaling the warmth of cumin, peppers, and something cheesy.

“I hope you like Mexican food,” you replied. “I made us tacos. Can I get you a glass of wine?”

“Sure,” I said, trying to appear calm even as my heartbeat reminded me how new and overwhelming this all felt.

You poured red wine and handed me the glass, your fingers brushing mine just enough to send a spark through my stomach.

“Come on,” you said. “Let me show you the rest.”

The first room you opened was nearly empty, just boxes and a lone chair.

“My roommate just moved out,” you explained. “Thinking of making this an office… production stuff.”

Your dreams. Your future. Your creative world quietly taking shape.

Then we stepped into the larger room, one that felt like the center of your life. A deep sectional sofa, a television, a stereo system, stacks of records, several guitars leaning side by side, and a piano against the far wall.

It was warm, lived-in, and unmistakably yours.

“Let’s sit in here a moment and talk,” you said. We sat.  You turned to me with a softness that stole my breath.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” you said. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

I could feel myself blush. Completely involuntary.

“Me too,” I whispered. For a heartbeat, the room stilled. Then you reached for one of your guitars.

“I wrote a song for you,” you said, almost shyly. “I’d love to play it.”

A song.  For me.  I was stunned.

Then you began to play, Seal the Deal, Common Baby, let's seal the deal…and it was raw and romantic and completely disarming. The melody carried that Springsteen sincerity, that gritty sweetness that feels like home and longing at the same time. Your voice wrapped around the room, around me, saying things in music you weren’t yet ready to say out loud.

I listened, breath caught somewhere between my heart and my throat.

Part of me whispered warnings, You just got out of something awful… focus on your career… guard your heart…but the other part of me, the part that had been aching for kindness, leaned in despite myself.

When the last chord faded, I found my voice, barely. “I… I’m really speechless. That was beautiful. You’re a really good songwriter. It has kind of a Springsteen vibe.”

You smiled, shy and proud. “Yeah? I’ll take that.”

The moment felt too big, too intimate. My brain scrambled for air.  And because I’m me, I blurted out:

“Hmm… maybe it would be a good time for tacos?”

You burst into laughter — warm, genuine, grateful for the levity.

“Tacos are perfect,” you said.

You set the guitar down gently, stood, and helped me up as though everything unfolding was happening exactly the way it should.

We walked back to the kitchen side by side, past the empty room, past the tall ceilings, into the warmth of the checkered floor and the smell of peppers and lime.

There were no dramatic kisses or cinematic confessions.

Just tacos, wine, laughter, and a quiet warmth between us, two people stepping into a moment neither of us could name yet, but both of us already feeling.

And there I was — fresh out of heartbreak, determined to prioritize my career, realizing I was hungry. But not necessarily for food.

Because somewhere between the serenade and the tacos…something had begun.

Anna

💕