‘What a rascal!’ I thought and smiled. Just that second, he looked back over his shoulder and found me in happy wonderment. Now, he smiled, which, of course, made me smile even more. It was all too incredible: Him, this beautiful day, the truck delivering wood to rich homes and providing fire, warmth, and cozy evenings to loving or lonely people. My initial anxiety about lunching here had vanished. By now, I was deeply at peace and in utter bliss.

The two men next to me had finished their first courses and now indulged in the second one, which looked fantastic. The food pleasure was breaking down the distance between us, and they looked much more at ease. We get to talk a little. I asked them if they’d seen the wood truck, which they hadn’t, and they told me how they saw some people cheating with parking tickets, which I hadn’t. We talked about the food and that they were checking this place out because they had initially been thinking of renting the space themselves. The older man introduced me to his son next to him and gave me his business card, which was white with golden letters that made it look 1990s glam mixed with tropical dancing. What was that place? I couldn’t figure it out from the writing on the card. In my mind, hula girls were dancing with hula skirts and coconut bras while collecting money bills from their audience. However, it turned out to also be a restaurant.

I laughed at how possible it could have been… a place where hula girls, fine restaurants, and new discoveries lurked around every corner. Why not.

I was sipping my drink, taking notes in my journal, and once again, my man returned. He walked right up towards me and came to a halt, his hands suavely resting on the bar table. Hello again. The New Yorkers I had met in the past days were so easygoing with giving away business cards and phone numbers and, just like that, opening up to strangers, but this one here especially charmed me. And what was his name? Despite or because I initially was daunted by him, I definitely wanted to get to know him better, and here he was, standing next to me.

“By the way, let me introduce myself: I’m Gabriel. What’s your name?” he asked and gave me his hand.

“I’m Maribelle,” I answered while we shook hands.

“Oh, that’s a pretty name.” After a brief moment, our hands let go. His hand felt nice, warm and strong, yet tender.

“Thank you. So, are you from here?”

“No, I’m from Norlyns,” he said. Not New Orleens, not New Orlyns; it was Norlyns, like a true Southerner’s speech. That girl in high school in Montana, who’d just moved there from New Orleans, had also said ‘Norlyns.’

Gabriel must have been really smooth in asking for my number because it was so easy to write it down, tear out a piece of paper from my journal, and hand it over to him that I don’t even remember how I did it.