You stand at the mirror in your bathroom, putting the last touches on your makeup. You’ve gone a little simple, just a bit of mascara and lip gloss, and your hair is thankfully cooperating today. The doorbell rings, so you give yourself one last once-over in the mirror and head to the front door.

You open it and blush slightly when you see Jim standing there, looking slightly nervous. This makes you feel a little better, knowing he’s possibly as nervous as you are.  

“You look great,” he says, breaking into a smile, and you grin at him. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you say; he looks amazing, but you’re afraid of coming off like Kelly and scaring him away if you were to allow yourself to say what you were actually thinking, which would begin with something like, “Gray sweaters should be a daily requirement for you” and would probably end with “Can I touch your stomach?” 

He smiles at you, and you wonder why you didn’t ask him out the minute you met him for the first time. “Ready?” he asks, and you grab your jacket. Jim helps you slide your arms in, and you’re happy that you don’t have to struggle with it in front of him.

You sling your purse over your arm and lock your door, and as you clatter lightly down the front steps, Jim’s hand guides the small of your back, and you’re ready to say to hell with the date; you’re tempted to go right back into the house and drag him with you.  

You walk down the sidewalk to his car, and he unlocks and pulls open your door with such nonchalance that you just know his mother raised him right. You’re very aware that thought this is the seventh time you’ve ever ridden in his car, this is the first time where the outcome is a little hazy.

You can’t help but smile at him when he climbs in the driver’s seat. “What?” he asks, smiling because you’re grinning like a fool. “Nothing,” you say, because you don’t really want to tell him that you’re picturing what might happen at the end of the date. You want to let things just happen as they will.  

“I thought you might like something a little different,” he says. “I didn’t make a reservation, but I did bring my picnic basket.” “You have a picnic basket?” you ask, smiling. “Yes, I do, and Martha Stewart would be very proud of me,” he says, indicating the backseat.

You burst out laughing when you see the pink plastic basket. “Isn’t that an Easter basket?” you ask, and he grins. “My niece lent it to me for the occasion,” he says, “And beggars can’t be choosers, so I gladly accepted it.” 

You laugh as he turns into the deli parking lot, and the two of you spend a good ten minutes filling the ridiculous basket with food. He won’t let you buy anything extra, saying it all had to fit in the basket, carrying a bag is against the rules. You laugh, but you enjoy the challenge, and soon you’re back in the car.  

He drives you to a park and opens your door, obvious excitement on his face.  “I thought we could have a picnic here,” he says, pointing to a large willow tree. You see the playground near the tree and Jim points again. “I drove by here the other day, and it’s the only playground left with a merry-go-round,” he says, and you head right toward it.  Jim jogs behind you and sets the picnic basket down as you climb onto the little merry-go-round.

He asks if you’re ready and calls you by your last name, which always makes you smile. He gives a mighty push and takes a running leap onto the merry-go-round, and the two of you are spinning and laughing and it’s just perfect. Sometimes when you’re around him, you forget the dignity of your age and feel like a kid again, and you wonder what he possesses that makes you feel like everything’s brand new.  

You both take a few more turns and then stumble off; you trip and of course Jim is there to catch you, and for a few seconds you cling to each other because that’s all you want to do.

You break apart, red-faced, and he indicates the willow tree. “Shall we?” he says, and you nod. He picks up the basket and you move toward the tree, and he motions for you to stand still. “Close your eyes,” he says, and you smile because it’s always fun to hear him being bossy, and then you won’t let your mind go where it’s going because it would be scandalous to attack him right here in public.  

You hear him rummaging in the trunk and moving in front of you, and your skin can feel it when he comes close to you. “Open,” he says, and he’s looking slightly sheepish as you survey the blanket and vase of flowers on the ground. “It’s not too cheesy, is it?” he asks, and you grin widely. “Of course not," you say, “It’s perfect, we’re here together and no one can bother us!” You wish you could say the rest of the thought, which is that you’d be happy at the wastewater treatment plant as long as he was there and looking at you like that. 

You settle down onto the blanket and Jim doles out the food. “No stealing my chips,” he says, because he knows you’re a notorious chip thief. You throw a pickle at him, which he’s not expecting, and a mini food fight occurs. You brush breadcrumbs off of your shirt and you can’t imagine a better first date. You can’t believe how easy it is to just be yourself, and you can tell that Jim feels it, too. He catches all of your pop culture references and makes more of his own, and you feel like you could tell him anything.  

After eating, you’re both feeling contented and calm, and so you spend a little while lolling on the blanket, talking about everything under the sun. It’s getting dark out, and you shiver a little. “We should probably keep moving,” Jim says, "Are you ready for the second half?”

”There’s more?” you say, surprised, because this is perfection already. “We need dessert, don’t we?” Jim asks as he opens your car door.   

As he drives, he tunes the radio to the oldies station, and you bet him that you know the lyrics to more songs than he does, and he loves the challenge. You’re dead even for three songs, and then on the fourth, he freezes up and you are triumphant.

He concedes with a smile and says, “I don’t know whether to be proud or sad that you know every lyric.” 

“Proud, definitely,” you say, and he laughs. “Well, we’re here,” he says, and you haven’t even been paying attention.

The sights and smells hit you immediately; bright, flashing lights and the scent of carnival food overwhelm you. “A carnival?” you ask, grinning, and he nods. “It’s only here one weekend, like our own personal Brigadoon,” he says, and you love that the man you’re on a date with just referenced a lesser-known musical.  

You climb out of the car, excited to be here, and he catches your hand as you head toward the crowd. Every nerve in your body seems concentrated on this single point of contact, and you marvel at how a simple hand-holding makes your stomach flip. His had is warm and strong, and you give it a little squeeze. He squeezes back and you know that you’re both too embarrassed to say what you’re feeling.  

You have a major decision to make between a deep fried Twinkie and an elephant ear for dessert, and Jim buys one of each. “We can share,” he says, and it feels strangely intimate to be tearing off strips of cinnamony, sugary fried dough, fingers occasionally touching.  

As you eat, you watch all the teenagers go by. “They all look so young; how can we be so much older than them?” you ask, and Jim laughs. “I hope we’re not that much older,” he says. “I don’t feel very old,” you say, and he agrees. “Let’s go on some rides,” he suggests, holding out his hand. You slide yours into it, and the two of you head toward the rides.

You both agree to skip the roller coaster, it’s flimsy looking and you’re both stuffed, two good reasons to opt out. “We have to do the fun house,” he says, and you laugh at his excitement.  

The fun house is dark and loud, and you get mixed up in the hall of mirrors, running into each other. You find that you don’t mind, for some reason. You both slip and slide over the floor with rollers, and Jim slides his arm around your waist and you both support each other. You slide your own arm around his waist and he smiles, and you kind of wish you could stay in there forever. The kids behind you might not appreciate it, though, so you move on.  The spinning tunnel room is so disorienting that the both of you stumble out and lean against the wall.

”I don’t know if I can handle any more rides,” you say, laughing, and he agrees, with one condition. “You can’t possibly go to a carnival without riding the Ferris wheel,” he says, and you agree.  

The carnie locks you into your little Ferris wheel car, and Jim whispers, “Wonder what his resume looks like.” You giggle as the ride judders to life and you go swinging backwards.  

It’s strangely quiet once the ride begins, and you both just watch the stars. Jim’s arm is suddenly around your shoulders and you lean into the warmth of him. You close you eyes just for a moment, wanting this feeling to last forever.  

The ride stops with your car at the top, and you open your eyes when he says your name in a low voice. You turn to see him looking at you, and before you can even process what is happening, your eyes are closed again and you’re leaning in, and the kiss is perfect, soft and sweet and sugary.

You break apart as the ride shudders again, and he gives you a slow, shy smile. “I’ve wanted to do that all night,” he says, and you smile, too. “Me, too,” you say softly, and his arm tightens around you.  

When the ride is over, neither of you says anything; heading for the car. You’re done with the people and the noise and the light, you only want the two of you.

“We can go back to my place,” you say, “I have beer, wine, juice, and even water.”

“Can I have it in a glass?” he asks, and you nod importantly. “I’ll even give you the real glass, not the plastic ones that act like glass,” you say, and he laughs and pulls you close to him.  

The ride home seems too long, even though it’s only a few moments; you hold hands in the car and feel like a pair of teenagers.

At your place, you unlock the door and are relieved that you decided to clean up earlier. “This is really nice,” he says, looking around, and you nod, hoping you won’t spend the whole rest of the evening talking.