The day finally arrived. I emailed her and asked, “I’m climbing into my car in half an hour. Is there anything else I need to do?” She responded, “Please be well hydrated.”
So before I left Palo Alto, I stopped by a Starbucks and bought their largest white chocolate mocha. I headed out Embarcadero and then up Route 101, sipping the coffee and feeling my anxiety build. I was only a little apprehensive; mostly I was excited, very excited.
I merged onto I-880 north and saw the first sign for Oakland. 22 miles—about 22 minutes—that seemed like a long time, especially since the coffee had now gone through my system and was trying to get out again.
I took the Franklin Street exit, crossing and uncrossing my legs, and picked my way through unfamiliar streets. The district she lived in was mixed commercial-residential-dubious, and by the time I got there, I was desperate to pee. I debated relieving myself in the vacant lot next to her loft; decided against it; went in, took the elevator, got out at her door, knocked, full of urine that needed release, anxiety that could not be quelled, and excitement that I was about to fulfill the fantasies of a lifetime.
She answered the door and we hugged.
I asked if I could use the bathroom, and she said "sure."
And I, with gratitude, restored my fluid equilibrium.