We were sitting adjacent in a booth, with a view of the entire restaurant, lights dim as is the trend in most Brooklyn restaurants so we couldn’t really see anything but each other. We could barely even read the menu. He was holding the small tea light up against the menu. I was doing the same. We were on the same page, no pun intended. 

This was our second date. Our first one had gone so well that naturally, our second spontaneous daytime hang out spilled over into the evening. Our nonstop conversation did as well. 

He was the first guy I met who seemed normal and kind of interesting. We both swiped right on Tinder, engaged in some witty banter, crossed our fingers and hoped for the best. Here we were, at my favorite restaurant in Greenpoint, knowing full well that dinner was just a precursor to “dessert” at his apartment later. 

“We should share plates,” he suggested. At this point, I was swooning - hard. 

“And why don’t you pick for us?” he continued. 

It was like he entered my brain, looked around, and exited through my heart. And my heart was bursting with a million butterflies. 

“How about the broccoli and fava bean salad?” I asked.

“Sounds good.” 

“The radish appetizer sounds amazing too, doesn’t it”

“Let’s get that too.” 

Two for two so far. I was on a roll. 

“Let’s try the rabbit,” I said confidently.

There was long pause. 

He finally spoke. “Hmm. It has cilantro. I don’t eat cilantro.” 

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