FIRST: Cleo

A match made online, two people meet for dinner and find romance blooming over food, fire, and fantasy. Love grows for the city around them and the company they share.

FIRST is a collection of short stories inspired by my own first date experiences, exploring the potential for profound connections with strangers. Shaped by my memories, these stories are a tribute to the people who have left a lasting mark on my journey.

The collection is ongoing and will be featured throughout my page—just look for FIRST!

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Painting by Noel Hefele, 2019.

The summer wind lifted the clear awning above the outdoor seating, sending it rippling like a sail caught in the breeze. Tiny white flowers tumbled from the branches above, drifting onto every surface—settling on tabletops, nestling into hair, brushing against bare skin. She walked through them effortlessly, the silk of her movement folding and unfurling in rhythm with the wind. Taller than I had imagined, she carried herself with an ease that made the world seem to part around her. The light caught on her thighs, gleaming beneath the frayed edges of her denim shorts, and for a moment, I felt insubstantial—like the petals floating aimlessly around us, untethered, waiting to land.

"Well, you're a welcome surprise," she said, pulling me into a soft embrace, the warmth of her cheek lingering against mine. She smelled of something lush and sweet, like ripe fruit at the height of summer, begging for a bite.

We slipped into our seats at the corner table, tucked between an overgrown cascade of plants and a collection of mismatched thrifted chairs. The air smelled of warm bread, citrus, and sea salt. Our knees met under the table—an accidental intimacy neither of us corrected. We had met on a dating app, our banter effortlessly sharp, our flirtation winding upward in a steady crescendo. It had been a week of intensity, but nothing had prepared me for the full presence of Cleo. Her charm was quiet, magnetic—a pull rather than a push. She smiled as I spoke, small, knowing, as if affirming I was saying exactly what I should.

At the table beside us, a couple stumbled through an excruciating first date—awkward pauses stretching too long, laughter landing in the wrong places. Cleo leaned in conspiratorially. "That could never be us," she teased, slipping her hand into mine. The touch sent a slow warmth curling up my spine. For a moment, we existed in our own world, untouchable.

"Should we order?" I asked, glancing at the server hovering nearby, waiting for an opening to interrupt us. Cleo widened her eyes, placing both hands flat on the table. "I'm famously indecisive. Please don't hold it against me."

"What if I ordered for us?" I countered. "Do you trust me?"

She leaned in, her gaze steady, playful. "Yes," she said, voice soft but certain. "I think I do."

I signaled to the server and shot her a wink, a silent promise. "Sorry to keep you waiting," I said jokingly, "but we're ready to begin." I let the words stretch just a beat too long, savoring the anticipation pooling in the space between us. "We'll start with the marinated olives, leeks, and grilled baby octopus, and a bottle of Piquette." As I listed our meal, she rested her chin in her palm, watching me, hanging on the cadence of my voice. "For our mains, we'll have the moules and the braised lamb shank. We'll be sharing, so if you could bring small plates, that would be perfect. I want her to taste everything."

The server smirked knowingly before slipping away. Cleo exhaled, slow and deliberate, like she was savoring something rich on her tongue. "I like this side of you," she murmured.

I let a smirk tug at the corner of my lips. "Oh, I’m just getting started."

She laughed, head tilting back slightly, and I took in the lines of her throat, the way her collarbones peeked from beneath the neckline of her shirt. The air between us was charged, heavy, electric.

When the wine arrived, she traced the rim of her glass with one finger, her eyes flicking up to meet mine. "So," she said, voice low, "tell me about your last great love."

The moment stretched between us, heavy with possibility. I lifted my glass, tilting it slightly toward hers. "How about a toast first?" I said. "To us. To this night. And to what is definitely going to be an unforgettable date."

Our glasses met with a quiet chime, and in that instant, I felt her thoughts rattling through my body like a snake. I picked up an olive and held it between my fingers, just in front of my lips. She watched, eyes tracking every movement, as I took my first bite of the evening. Without intention, every motion between us became part of an intricate game—like chess, but charged with something far more electric. The tension curled between us, sharp and sweet, humming beneath each glance.

We moved through our dishes, sharing forks, words, and those excruciating stares. She was captivated by the story each bite told, the way flavors unfolded like a whispered secret. When I scooped up the mussel broth with an empty shell, she watched intently, lips parted slightly. Instead of bringing it to my own mouth, I turned toward her, leaning in. Her eyes fluttered closed as she parted her lips, and I gently tipped the shell, letting the rich, fragrant broth spill onto her waiting tongue. She swallowed, a slow, satisfied smile blooming across her face.

I spoke softly, guiding her through each flavor—curry, shallots, fresh herbs, coconut, thai chilis—watching as she let the tastes settle, absorbing them fully. The wind curled around us, carrying the scent of trees, spice, something wild. When she opened her eyes again, her cheeks were flushed. She looked away for a moment, like she needed to steady herself, like she was revealing too much at once.

We had reached that rare, intoxicating threshold on a first date—the moment where intrigue takes over, where every touch, every glance, holds the promise of something just beyond our reach.

As dinner stretched on, our conversation followed a path forward, winding through intimacies we had never spoken aloud—dreams left behind, futures still unwritten. The city hummed around us, the air thick with the scent of summer pavement and something else, something new.

"When I was 17, I knew I’d end up here," she said, tracing the rim of her glass with a fingertip. "Brooklyn was always the place where I would find myself, my friends, love. It made sense to me in a way my hometown never did. There’s something about the way people exist here, how the city breathes through them. I always feel like I’m dating the streets, the shops, the nature. The birds are softer, the stoops are full. Brooklyn holds something special—and I feel it now, sitting here with you. Maybe I knew you'd be here, too."

I smiled, tilting my head. "I knew you’d be here, too. A fortune cookie told me once."

She laughed, her knee brushing against mine under the table, sending a ripple through me. Our glasses sat empty now, the remnants of dinner reduced to streaks on shared plates, but neither of us made a move to leave. The server lingered nearby, subtly signaling that our time was up, but we weren’t ready to let the night go.

"How do you feel about a surprise relocation?" I asked, watching her reaction closely.

She arched a brow. "I feel really good about it. Should I pack a swimsuit?"

"Only if that’s what makes you feel comfortable," I teased, leaning forward just enough to watch the way her face welcomed mine.

The check arrived, and we paid quickly, slipping out into the night. The city was different now—quieter, like it was making space for us to grow. She reached for my hand without hesitation, her fingers warm against mine as we walked through my neighborhood.

"This one," she said, pointing to a brownstone with large windows and an ominous glow. "If I lived here, I’d turn that tiny attic window into a reading nook. Just a small cushion, a cup of coffee, and the best view of the people walking down the street."

"And that one," I gestured toward another, where the front garden spilled wild over the wrought iron fence. "We’d fill the stoop with plants—wild colors spilling over the railings for each season. People would stop to take pictures. In the winter, our Christmas lights would make the whole block glow."

She squeezed my arm, laughing. "We’d win awards," she said, playing along. "Best stoop garden, most charming window boxes, the ‘cool but slightly mysterious couple’ award."

"Oh, that last one is a given," I murmured.

The closer we got to my building, the more the air buzzed. She was at least six inches taller than me, and as we walked, I felt cocooned in a way that settled my body, made me feel lighter. When we reached my front steps, she released my arm, giving me space to take the lead.

Inside, I gave her the briefest tour—enough to let her take in the pieces of me scattered throughout my space. She wandered to the kitchen, fingers trailing over the marble counter before picking up a bottle of wine. She turned it in her hands, then glanced at me, eyes full of curiosity.

I grabbed a bundle of firewood from the corner and grinned. "I had a warm night in mind."

Pushing open the back door, I stepped aside to watch her reaction.

She inhaled sharply as she took it in—the backyard glowing under a canopy of string lights, their reflections flickering off tiny mirrors placed strategically along the fence. The fire pit sat at the center, ringed by lounge chairs and a small table stacked with games. Even in the open city air, the space felt like a secret—intimate, untouched.

"Do you do this for all your dates?" she asked, her voice soft.

"No," I said, setting the logs down. "Just you."

The fire caught quickly, flames licking up into the night, the scent of burning wood curling through the air. She settled into one of the lounge chairs as I shuffled through the stack of games.

"Pick one," I said, holding them up.

She reached for UNO.

"Perfect. I’ll win, and you’ll find it extremely attractive. I promise."

She smirked, rolling her eyes, but her gaze lingered as I dealt the cards. We played close, our knees pointing toward each other, each glance a silent challenge. The fire crackled, casting shifting shadows across her face.

"UNO," I whispered, laying down a draw four. "Color’s blue. UNO out."

She groaned, falling back against the lounge chair in exaggerated defeat, her arms splayed wide. Above us, the sky stretched endlessly, stars scattered like tiny presents.

She had lost, but in some way, she had won. She had won the romance, the joy, the intrigue. She was the recipient of heavy flirting and playful teasing. She was on a first date, the most joyful experience. I felt the same.

She stood, stretching slightly before nudging me over in my seat. Without hesitation, she slid in beside me, draping her legs over mine, her warmth settling over me like a second skin. I reached to the side and grabbed the long skewers I had set aside.

"A little dessert?" I asked.

She perked up immediately, and we loaded each other’s skewers with marshmallows, our legs still intertwined. As the fire licked at the soft edges, I unwrapped a bar of dark chocolate, breaking off a piece and holding it up for her. She opened her mouth slowly, deliberately, as if receiving a holy sacrament.

There was something sacred about the romance unfolding between us.

She ate the chocolate with quiet joy, and I pulled the first marshmallow from the fire, watching the way it stretched and melted between my fingers. As we built our s’mores, I could see us cooking together in the future—laughter bubbling between us, our hands moving in rhythm to create something new, something wholly ours.

I loved watching her eat, and she clearly enjoyed being fed by me. It felt easy. We felt easy.

A thin line of chocolate clung to the crease of her lip, and without thinking, I reached out to wipe it away. She caught my hand before I could pull back, bringing my finger to her mouth to lick away the remains.

"I’m not fond of waste," she murmured, her eyes glinting in the firelight.

I understood.

The moment hung between us, thick with unspoken invitations. I took my chance.

Leaning in, I let my lips graze hers, testing the spark I already knew existed. She met me with the same slow curiosity, her hands cradling my face as my fingers found their way to her thighs. The kiss was unhurried but full of life, our own rhythm unfolding between us—like jazz musicians locked in a spontaneous jam session, no script, just instinct.

Time folded in on itself as we held each other under the stars. The fire crackled, burned low, and still, we did not move.

"We made it to tomorrow," I whispered as our noses crossed paths.

She pulled me closer, kissing me again before murmuring, "Another day, another chance for me to avenge you in UNO."

I laughed softly as we settled deeper into each other, the firelight flickering in its final moments. When the last ember faded, we had only our own spark left to keep us warm.

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