Falling in Love for the Weekend.

I'm going to fall in love with you in the next two days, aren't I?

To which I respond;  Yes, probably.

He is leaving for Holland first thing Tuesday morning.

He has been here, in town, in America, for a little over a month.

Rewind to Saturday.
I walked into a bar & saw one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen staring at the big screen above the the  top shelf . He did not notice me, or so I thought. My friends and I elbowed our way right to bar, right next to him and order our wine. Wearing a long black backless dress, I positioned myself with my back to him as I was chatting with my friends. His eyes did not move from the television.
The three of us were approached by an older gentleman (and I used that phrase lightly) at the bar, and after about five minutes of harrassment, one of the girls I'm with explains to him that the tall blonde behind us is in fact, her brother. A fact to which he agrees, in a heavy Dutch accent. My friends start talking to the taller, slightly goofy looking Dutchman, and I use this time to slowly back into his TV-watching friend. I finally asked him what he is staring so contently at, and he answers with something about surfing -- in a heavy, Dutch accent.
I melt. Knees buckle. The whole shebang.
You know that spark I've been whining about? Well... Yeah.
We spend the entire rest of the evening together. Drinking wine, smoking cigarettes, kissing. Comparing our limited knowledge of one another's country's geography. Making fun of one another. I go back to his hotel. We do not sleep togther. We drink a cheap rose' with a screw off lid, and we kiss and kiss. Thats when he asked if he was going to fall in love with me. I already knew I would. (And not just because of the accent, or my deep desire to refer to those who effect me by their nationality.)
In the morning, he takes me home, having to first turn around to retreive my forgotten phone, then to stop for coffee then to pick up my friends and take them to their cars. He drops me off, and promises that we will get together for lunch or brunch or whatever, that we will just get together.
What followed was perhaps the best Sunday Funday ever --- neither Dutchmen (it was me, him & his lanky blonde colleague) had never heard of the term. I showed them my favorite patios in town; it is my favorite way to spend my Sundays, afterall - wine tasting in the sun, laughing & wearing a pretty dress.

Sidenote: As we were waiting for a cab outside the first restaurant, lo & behold! Who crosses the street to find me with two very obviously European men? The Englishman. He must think I collect foreigners.

At the second pub, sitting in the sun, we talk about our families, we joke & we smoke. (My mother's gonna love that.) I talk about the fruit trees by my childhood home, about the wine grapes I had in my backyard. He talks about his mom, and his friend speaks of his many brothers and sisters. (I have, apparently, gotten very used to being out with accents - I knew the waitresses would ask over and over again what these boys were saying.) We talked about Americans, Europeans, & the Dutch. We stare at one another. We kiss. A lot.

He finally said goodbye to his colleague - who after one too many Guinness' told me I should sleep with the Dutchman because I will probably never see him again after he has left. I excuse myself to the bathroom; I know it is probably true. But still, I do not sleep with him.
Thankfully, I do take a picture with him, while we are at the pub. It may be my favorite picture ever; he is smiling looking straight into the camera. I have my elbow resting on his shoulder, and I am looking at him. We look handsome together. I have texted this photo to everyone I know.
We take a taxi back to my house, and kiss and talk. He does say it, he does say he has fallen in love with me. I say it back. We both know that we not talking about Love - but that we are to some degree talking about that intoxicating spark. That immediate connection with a once-stranger. Not lust, mind you, bigger than that; that feeling of Who Are You...?! What have you done to me?!

He wrote: You stole something from me.

He left for work, we have agreed to see eachother tonight for dinner.

He texted me this morning with,



I warned you for this.

Me: Yes, yes you did.

Him: I shouldn't fall in love with you.

Me: Terrible idea.

Him: But I did, and now I have to deal with it.

I know I may very well never see him again after tonight.

And, I wonder if he will refer to me as the American Girl in his head.

When I got out of the shower this morning, I discovered he had crafted a small heart out of a napkin and hidden it in my jewelry box.

I have his heart. Or at least a piece of it.