The Guy is a foodie, which I quite like, since I’m a foodie too. There’s nothing like cooking for someone who *gets* what the effort is, and who appreciates the subtleties of a well-designed meal. I’m hatching a scheme for a really nice meal I’d like to cook for him, now that I know I can afford to eat and be merry a little bit. He cooked me dinner last week, so it’s my turn…
…Trouble is, I’m sick, so our meal plans will have to wait a week or so. But The Guy is being a total sweetie and making me a batch of homemade chicken soup made from scratch (from the carcass of the bird that gave its life for our tasty meal last weekend, to boot), since I’m a sickie again. He’s bringing it by on Saturday. This will be date the fourth, such as cuddling and feeding-sickie can be called a date, and it’s safe to say it looks like this might be Something Good. It doesn’t feel like just the fourth date, though. The comfort factor’s far higher than I’d have expected it to be this soon.
What’s really cool about this thing is that we both have brains. It’s pretty tiresome always being the smartest person in relationships (I don’t mean that to sound as arrogant as it does, but trust me, I used to read a couple books a week — good, smart books — for years and years, and I’ve essentially been paid on the job to learn for the last nine years of my life, so I certainly have some book smarts, and street smarts, too).
A relationship with someone with at least as much smarts as me, if not smarter, is a real turn-on these days, and something I’ve craved for a long while. Like, a long, long while.
And hey. He does soup.
Now, if he gives his consent, I’ll share the oddly When Harry Met Sally-ish freaky-deaky way in which we met, but that’s his call. I know he’ll read this, so I’ll just wait for him to clue me in. It’s a pretty wicked story, though.
(My fever’s finally broken. Whew! Thank goodness. :)