Cristina ...
It happened once. Just once. Now we're back to saying "hi" in the hall and making polite talk at the coffeemaker. But can you blame me for replaying that evening again and again?
On the Reagan Day of Mourning, most of Washington, D.C., took a holiday. But several people showed up for work at our small, non-profit office. It didn't feel like a normal Friday -- more like a snow day, or the final day of the school year. By mid-afternoon, you were the ringleader, rounding up the young guns for early Friday drinks on the Hill. On your way out, you leaned into my cubicle and chided me for working when I could be playing. But, really, I had things to do.
When I walked into the bar an hour later, the first thing I heard was your laughter. You seemed to be the center of attention. And I was flattered when you slid over and made room for me in the booth. The stories, the drinks, the jokes continued. And two or three times, you lightly placed your hand on my leg.
It was raining steadily when our group split up. Since I was the dependable one with an umbrella, you announced that I had won the privilege of walking you to your apartment four or five blocks away. I may have been confused by your playful overtures, but I wasn't about to refuse.
