A thought: what if I died now on my way to the ice skating rink?  I’d probably have five texts and an angry voicemail from Greg because I missed our date.  Then he’d realize that Oh.  My.  God.  She’s dead, feel regret, come to the funeral, cry, and apologize for the tone of his voice in the message because he thought I just stood him up.
     Another thought: that was a really bad thought.  I shouldn’t think like this.  It’s this song.  Ugh!  This song is just bumming me out.
     I can’t be sad and walk into a date, that’s just, no.  You can’t walk into a date upset until at least three months into a relationship when the couple actually understands each other.  But not a first date, not a date like this.
    Greg and I decided on a trial date.  We’d been friends that everyone shipped together.  We are supposed to be the next Bradangelina , except we were Gralyssa because, well, he’s Greg and I’m Alyssa.
     Our feelings finally caught up with our friends and we weren’t sure what to do.  Stay friends?  Go out?  How about, go on a date and see what will happen.  Yeah, that will work.
I’m getting out of the car, and going up the stairs.  I will be spending a lot of time on my butt on the ice so I figure falling up the stairs will just be the icing on the embarrassment cake.
     I’m walking in and it smells like the tire section of one of those big, bulk item stores.  It reeks.  I understand the rubber floor for skates and all but it smells so- he’s waving, oh, my God he’s waving and smiling.  And I’m walking and blushing.  Crap, I’m blushing, don’t blush.  He’s behind the counter, I guess his shift just ended?  That’s right, he’s a working man.
    The clock behind him says 12:58, two minutes early and we’re both here.
     Oh yeah, I should smile.  And wave.
     So, I’m smiling and waving and I keep smiling and waving.  And I’m sitting down across the counter from him.  And he’s blushing.  He’s blushing too.   Jeez, look at us, two tomatoes over here.  He’s saying,
     “I get off in a minute, then I’m all yours” and as he’s saying this, he’s leaning in, chest over the sticky… whatever this is, counter.   And I’m nodding and smiling and biting my bottom lip and saying,
     “I can’t wait,” before I even know what is spilling out of my mouth.
      And he’s smiling again.
      His wrist watch is beeping.  One o’clock on the dot.  So prepared, so prepared.
      “Okay, I’ll be right there,” and he’s moving to the edge of the linoleum? pen that he’s in and he’s gesturing for me to follow him around to this awkward break in the bar where the counter flips up.  I should probably start talking before-
      “Come over here, down the stairs” he’s saying, waving his hand over so I know which direction to go.  I’m saying,
      “Okay,” and I’m coming smoothly over to the stairs where we’re clomping down, down, down the steps, steps, steps as we make our way toward the skates and the ice.
                                       *****
      I’m picking up skates and putting them on, praying that my hand doesn’t slip, my skate doesn’t go flying off, and that it doesn’t slice Greg’s head off.  That’d be a bad first impression with his parents.  Hi, I’m Alyssa and I decapitated your son on our date.  Yeah. Great.
     Now I’m standing and walking.  It’s getting colder and colder as we get closer and closer to the ice that I will become closely acquainted with in a couple minutes.
     “Don’t look so nervous,” he’s saying, “I’ve got you, I promise.”
      He’s grabbing my hand.  My hand!  Our fingers are wrapped around each other’s and oh s*** my hand is sweating.   Stop hand, stop sweating!  It’s just-
      “Alyssa, why are you so nervous?” I’m thinking of a funny answer, quickly.
      “Because I have the skating skills of a seven year old” and I’m smiling as he’s pulling me onto the ice and I’m not falling, yet, because he still has my hand.
      “No you don’t.  A seven year old would have fallen already, trust me, I see them all the time here.  Right now, you’re like a, a solid nine year old.”  And he’s smiling at his own joke and I’m rolling my eyes.
      “Aw, thanks Greg.  That means, man, that just melts my heart.”  I’m saying, tilting my head to the side, letting my voice roam freely in the sarcastic range.
      He’s squeezing my hand now, just because!  So I’m squeezing back but that’s it, no more-
      “It’s like, really empty in here,” he’s saying.  And his voice is echoing the tiniest, teeniest little bit because really, there are maybe two other people in here.  And they might be Greg’s co-workers for all I know.  I need to respond so I seem like my intelligent self.  
      “Yeah, it’s like that scene in Happy Gilmore where-”
      “She scores the goal-”
      “She’s not supposed to score-”
      “But she kisses Happy anyway,” he finishes.  And I’m smiling now because we just, I don’t know really.  It was so cool! So natural so, oh my God, he’s blushing.  Why?  What did I do?  Is that good?  What does it-
      “Look at us,” he’s saying grabbing my other hand, and helping me glide toward him across the small patch of ice between us.  He’s continuing, “We’re already-”
      “Finishing each other’s sentences.”  And I’m raising my eye brows giving him the ultimate “gotcha” look.
      “Just stop it, you… you… you…” I want to say smart-ass and complete another sentence of his but I really don’t know what he is trying to say, for once.
      He’s leaning closer, still saying “you” over and over again.  Flashing, through my brain, I’m seeing the signs that this could, no, should really work out.  Our hugs, his smell, two pairs of bright, green eyes.  The you’re so funny’s, the you look beautiful tonight, the can I have this dance?  Us swaying back and forth, us always aware but afraid of our chemistry, us, here, now, so freakin’ close to each other.  This is supposed to happen.  This can’t not happen.  I need something quick, snarky, and confident.
      “You. You. You.  A little tongue tied Gregory McAdams?  Maybe I can fix… you.”
      And here, it’s finally happening.  We’re finally, finally kissing.  A small, tiny pressing of two pairs of lips together.  There’s a stinging, a tingling, and shall I dare say? a sparking.  We’re pulling apart, but my feet aren’t moving, they’re stuck in the ice, or maybe neither one of us really want to move.  I don’t know, it’s just-
      “You,” he’s saying.
      “You,” I’m saying back, a little airy, a little breathlessly.
      “I’d say this ‘trial’ is a success” he’s saying as he is beginning to pull me around the rink again.
      “Yeah, me too,” and I’m squeezing his hand one more time.
      “And so Gralyssa begins.”
      “And so it all begins.”
      Now, something else is finally happening.  I am finally becoming acquainted with the cold, hard ground.
      But Greg’s pulling me back up, so really, it’s okay.