Date Night!

When you're in a long-term live-in relationship, date night is a funny thing. Tiffany and I spend every night together, after all. But just because we eat dinner doesn't mean we're on a date. What really happens is a lot of non-date stuff, like, cooking the dinner, spooning the leftover dinner into Tupperware for lunches, washing the dinner dishes and then emptying them from the drying rack so there's room for the next day's breakfast dishes.

In February, it will have been six years since I took Tiffany out on our first date. I was living in Brooklyn with Rob and Howard, my basically-uncles, and Tiffany was living in Boston. She drove down for the weekend, and, on Saturday night, I took her to the museum for a Marilyn Monroe exhibit and salsa dancing. Afterwards we went out for Chinese and my fortune said "You are a lover of words. Someday you will write a book." The next weekend was Valentine's Day. I'd never had a girlfriend on Valentine's Day (okay, I'd never had a girlfriend), so I went to the Wal-Mart near my subway stop and bought a red top I thought was sexy. It wasn't. I haven't worn red since (I have, however, bought other things at Wal-Mart). Oh well. Tiffany took me out for Brazilian food and then to the top of the Empire State Building.

Two weekends ago I decided Tiffany and I needed to go out on a date (don't worry, we've been on other dates besides those first two... let me think here...I'm sure we have...). So I asked her. Actually, I told her:

"Ooooh," I said, reading the Sunday paper. "I'm taking you out on a surprise date Friday."

I ripped off the page where I had gotten the idea so she wouldn't cheat and try to figure out what I'd seen. All week she tried to guess where we were going. I wrote a count-down on the dry-erase board on our fridge above the day-to-day notes we leave for each other:

Four Nights 'Til Date Night!!
--turned on crock pot at 8:05
--LAUNDRY
--check to make sure car hasn't been towed
--love you!

Even I was excited and I knew where we were going (it wasn't that exciting, you'll see).

It was warm all week, but when Friday rolled around, so did the fog. Tiffany asked me what she should wear as she straightened her hair.

"Something warm," I said.

"Are we going to be outside?" she asked, eyes widening.

"Mm-hm," I said, exiting the bathroom.

On the scooter, Tiffany called out all the places she thought we might have been going as we passed them. They were mostly restaurants with, you know, chairs and table service.

"We're here," I said, pulling into a parking lot.

"I can't feel my toes," she said, swinging her flip-flopped feet off the scooter.

I took her hand and led her into a ring of RV-like trucks that local chefs have turned into mobile restaurants. Dozens of people were milling about in the middle trying to decide which truck to hit up for Chinese-inspired buns, El Salvadoran pupusas, and chicken tikka masala burritos. Tiffany and I shared one of each. After every purchase, we circled the folding chairs strewn about the center of the ring but couldn't find a spot to sit. So we ate standing up, taking turns holding the food and blowing into our hands to stay warm.

It was freezing. We had to stand in line for 15 minutes at each truck. The masala burrito was so spicy that we had to buy the pupusa to cool off our tongues. By the time we finished that, we were too cold to contemplate dessert. But it was awesome.

On the scooter ride home, Tiffany clung to me Koala-style to stay warm. We stopped at the 24-hour grocery store and bought a box of hot chocolate. Back at our apartment, we boiled water, poured it over the powder and cupped our hands around our steaming mugs. We shared a gigantic bowl of popcorn.

And we left all the dishes in the sink.