First date, post-divorce.

It’s 9:30 p.m. on Friday night. Sandi will disappear for hours at a time on text — which is fine — so I’ve learned to not take it personally.

She emerges and says she’s on the way to see me. I live in a downtown high rise, overlooking the city. So, of course, I’ll give her a tour of the building.

just before 10, she pulls in. Her “casual” is sensational. Sleeveless blue sundress with sandals. Matching hoop earrings.

“I definitely need my glasses at night. Otherwise, I’m blind as a bat.”

I show her the view from the roof, then the pool — all lit up with blue lights at night — and also my place for a few minutes. There’s light kissing but it’s not “I want to throw you onto the bed three feet away and start undoing hooks” kissing.

Ten minutes later, we’re at the jazz club because, of course it’s across the street. I introduce Sandi to the owner and the bartender. For the next ninety minutes, we’re talking deeper about our lives. She has a lemon drop. I have a Blue moon.

She tells me why left her exciting life elsewhere to “come home”. Her response isn’t just the cancer but also the grandkids. One has very acute autism and needs constant supervision. She says her role is to make sure the other little kids DO get the attention they need. She’s in the midst of a “full reset” — as I have been myself. It’s an intimate talk and she’s touching again when talking. Hands. Shoulders. Kneecaps.

Midnight hits and the jazz club closes so we to to the cigar bar a block down. A woman is the frontman for a Zeppelin tribute band. Every guy puts an eye on Sandi as she walks in, with her confidence and slight hip swivel. Everyone sees her.

Another lemon drop. Water for me — I do one drink max. It’s too loud to really keep talking. Now 1 am.

“Let’s get you back to your car.”

I stop at her car and get out.

“You said you keep your swimsuit with you,” I said. “The pool is 24/7. It’s 80 degrees still. Want to swim?”

“I was hoping you’d ask.”

Five minutes later, we’re in my place. I grab my blue trunks. She has a red/black string bikini.

“I’m probably the least modest person you’ll ever meet.”

Wirh that, she takes off her sundress and her bra/panties right there.

“I’d like to say that I am eyes up here but you are truly beautiful,” I say. A tight, tan body. Perfect curves — NOT enhanced.

Not a hair below her shoulders.

She slips the bikini on and asks if I’ll tighten the back of her top. Of course, I will.

Now the kisses get a bit stronger between the two of us. After a minute of hands exploring all over each other, I grab two towels, grab her hand and we’re off to the pool.

Stars in the sky and blue lights in the pool. It’s 1:25 a.m. The pool is 9-feet deep at one end and I jump right in. Then Sandi dives in.

I don’t anticipate this will turn into the pool scene in “Showgirls”, where Jesse from Saved By The Bell is riding Ray Manzarek from The Doors. Moderate kissing but I can’t quite place where the night is going. I’ve already seen her naked — looks incredible — and she seems comfortable with me.

After 20 minutes of laughing, kissing and touching, we get out and start drying ourselves off.

“Oh shit. My glasses!”

(the credits run).

 

We have no idea where her gold, wire-rimmed glasses are. Her eyes are in two different directions without them.

We’re lifting up deck chairs. Going through the towels. She is split between laughing over this plot twist and also the reality that she can’t drive without her glasses.

“Did I have them when I came down here?”

We search my apartment — pretty much do an FBI warrant on my place. Nothing. She dumps out her purse. Nothing. Back to the pool. Phone flashlights. Nothing.

“Well, if you can’t drive, just stay with me until daylight and we’ll look through the pool,” I say. “It’s gotta be in there somewhere.”

Back up to my place as she gets out of the bikini and puts her black bra and panties on.

“Let’s get some sleep,” she says.

(For my premium subscribers, you should be getting an email detailing every touch, word, caress…)

I have nothing on. Neither does she.

“Tell me what you want to do,” she says. “I’ll do it.”

Yadda yadda yadda, after each of us being very attentive to the other person, it’s now 3:45 am as we drift off in each other’s arms.

The event was marred at 3 am as a wave of her friends started calling to check in on her to make sure she was okay. That did ruin the mood a bit with a call - and her answering the phone - every ten minutes over three calls.

5:40 am. The alarm on my phone goes off.

“Let’s go find your glasses,” I said.

“Don’t you want to get one more?” she giggles.

“Those glasses will still be there.”

Ten minutes later, the blue trunks are back on, grab towels, grab her hand (she has me help with her sundress and sandals — she can’t see a damn thing.)

I approach the pool like I’m Ted Kennedy who needs to come up with a miracle in the water. I’m diving in for 20 seconds at a time, using some goggles left behind, and frantically searching the pool floor. Nothing. Every time I see a speck, I investigative.

It’s like searching for the Titanic wreckage.

I go under 20, 25 times. I’m tired. With a deep pool, you’ve gotta push down quite a bit.

Now it’s 6:10 am.

I get out and throw on my swim shirt.

“I’ll keep looking today and I’ll drive them out to you,” I say.

“Sounds great.”

I take one more walk around this huge pool. The sun is a little higher now. I stop on something new.

Two little circles, I think I see, wavering at the bottom amid the floating imagery.

“Hang on,” I say quietly.

Her hopes rise.

I peel off the shirt and jump in. Floundering like a cockapoo in a bathtub, I feel the drops puncturing the goggles as I dig around. Yes, the glasses.

I emerge with the glasses, like the guy who fished out Roy McAvoy’s final shot of The Open from the water hazard.

“You’re my hero,” she coos, giving me probably the strongest kiss she’s offered me all day.

As I walk her to her car, we have this body language like Vincent Vega and Mia Wallace after she came back to life. The realization that this night was a journey and that we endured something unforgettable.

 

Post-script. She’s coming over in 30.

 

Muh-man. Nothing else needs to be said.

 

Guess we know who exmediahack really is.

 

This is just a detail, but you showed her right there you're a keeper.

 

Good catch. That’s been something in my single years that I’ve paid attention to.

I’m not possessive.

If Sandi wants to hook up with some random guy tonight, that’s her call and I will not be mad. I was “some random” last Friday… but I think we both like each other quite a bit.

The line I often use is… “I’m not John Stamos but I’m not John Candy.” I’m a 7 — 6.5 if I’m talking too much, maybe a 7.5 if I’m really listening.

I also know Sandi fought off 500+ men on Hinge and she spent her Friday night with me. So we’ll see.

I can also see the end before it really begins. But, damn, she’s captivating.

I know this. Sandi is the rare woman I don’t mind being late with me and the rare woman I’ll change the sheets a little more than usual for. She may not even be alive for very long but I want to offer her the best days I can.

 

Dammit, you got there already.

 

I know it was six years ago, but this is worth a d_b. Glad you’re having a great time.