ree House is not the first place you think of for a romantic dinner and sunset on a first date. Which is primarily why I chose it: a first date – a blind one, no less – does not want a sublime setting; it wants an escape route, just in case she turns out to be a Sasquatch.

I was running about a half hour behind schedule. She called as I was splashing cold water on my face, trying to erase the sleepy pink handprint from my cheek. Damn nap lines.

“I’m a little behind schedule,” she said. “It’s my ankle.” It turns out that my date is a genuine klutz. Last week she told me she tripped and fell on a dog while jogging. This week she and her bike tried to somersault down Seymour Mountain together. I like that. Very Lizzie McGuire.

“Stay there,” I said. “I’ll pick you up.”