HIS SIDE

The accidental providence in her words was not yet clear to either of us as we stood in the alleyway outside of my apartment. "You're going to meet my friend Jewls, and you guys are going to fall in love and get married," she said, perhaps equally in earnestness and jest. A forward forecast coming from someone I had met just hours earlier. But in her usual playful way, Christina insisted that I promise to meet her friend Juliana, and I obliged.

Two days later the formal invitation arrived with the familiar ding of my text message alert. I'd always found the concept of being "set up" a bit contrived, and even more so was the idea of a blind date. I couldn't help but imagine an evening filled with forced pleasantries, exchanging the most mundane facts of our past lives. Reluctant as I was to become ensnared in an evening of frivolous prattle at the behest of someone I barely knew, we agreed to meet, and shortly after I departed for Sunset's infamous Bar Marmont.

Fashionably on time and ahead of my expected company, I strolled into the bar under the shroud of hundreds of carefully preserved butterflies fashioned to the ceiling above. As usual, the energy of the venue was eclectically alive. I meandered through the celebrant crowd to the back bar and commandeered a stool at the end. As I nursed the edge off with my dear friend Jack, I waited in expectation, until I heard the beckoning of Christina's voice over my shoulder.

"John, Jewls. Jewls, John," she said as I spun casually around in my barstool. As she offered her hand, our eyes meeting for the first time, I recall two distinct and equally prolific thoughts passing through my synapses: "She is fine," and "What is she wearing?"

There she was. A petite, doe eyed la roux with an infectious smile and a sincere confidence as incontrovertible as the Alexander McQueen skirt she expressed it with. I will admit I was taken.

Our conversation began seemingly effortlessly, as she sprung into the stool beside me as though it was fated only for her. There was an earnestness about our conversation from the moment it began, not necessarily in topic but in focus. The intent with which she listened was impossible to ignore, and when she spoke, I found myself hoping she wouldn't stop.

She was intelligent, articulate, and least not utterly gorgeous. She balanced an air of sweetness with the allure of mystery as naturally as an involuntary talent, and the next few hours slid by without notice as we conversed over cocktails and deliciously soggy French fries.

Eventually, Christina, whom had clearly been under the careful supervision of the bartender, approached our table tugging her ear like a soldier raising the white flag. The time had come for the evening's affair to conclude.

As the valet retrieved her car, we shared the last moments of our first night together on the sidewalk under West Hollywood's starless sky. I found myself helplessly staring at her mouth, and amidst my gaze she quipped, "You're caught." Spitting the best game I had with reckless abandon, I replied almost suggestively, "Should I be caught?"

"Be caught," she invited.

And I was. As we kissed the sound of the bustling crowd around us seemed to evaporate into perfect silence, and I think we both knew it would not be our last romantic gambol.

I walked away that night with the distinct sensation that a magical season had begun in my life, and I was certain that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.