After hanging up the phone I look at my notebook where I've frantically scribbled "Get LIMES, SPEARMINT LEAVES, and RUM!!"  right underneath "Failed lie detector - Talk to Ethel Ferrara Apt #15 - Blood on floor mat" and three enormous question marks.  Hopefully the market by my apartment will still be open. 

I walk there, enjoying the fresh chill that September is bringing and stop at the market.  I'm in luck.  They are open and I easily find what I need and cram it into a bag and head home, staring at the sidewalk, my mind going over the phone conversation again and again. Was I too forward?  Will he think it's weird that I've asked him to come to my apartment on what is really only the second date, or I guess third if you count our pizza "lunch."  Is this a date?  What am I going to wear? 

My apartment is in its usual state of "fake clean," meaning everything sloppy has been conveniently shoved out of sight to give the illusion of spotlessness, a practice which used to drive Eugene nuts.  I pull out the candles and a slightly corny CD called "Sounds from the Caribbean" which I got at Crate and Barrel over the weekend and begin preparing my own pico de gallo and bean dip, continuously glancing at the clock. I hope he likes spicy food . . . I pause for a moment and look around the apartment.  I imagine how in just a few hours it will be different.  A new presence will change it and the image of him within my walls will leave a lingering image which will remain long after he leaves.  *That is, if he leaves* I think, causing myself to giggle into the onion I'm chopping. 

  A black dress.  Definitely. 

Current Mood: excited
Current Music: something sort of reggae

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