The White Elephant in the Room

One day after storing all my sundresses, summer roared back into NYC.

Celebrated the 75-degree morning by heading to outdoor brunch with Portugal in a corduroy mini and boots.

It’s the first Saturday morning in which we stroll at a lovers’ pace beyond Chelsea.

Nowhere we have to be.

No pressing plans other than spicy food and Coca Colas at a to-be-determined location.

We find it over fish tacos at Mercadito Grove, a spot Alberto and I discovered, but also a place to which I returned alone last winter.

We continue through the West Village and share an afternoon beer at one of Portugal’s favorite dives, a bar built in 1812 when the banks of the Hudson River were actually two blocks east.

We zigzag through Tribeca, where he shows me the best alleys for singing at the top of your lungs.

I introduce him to drinks at a former carriage house with a bathroom built into an antique elevator cage.

En route to tapas, we peek into galleries and double over at the sight of someone hauling an inflatable, life-size zebra across the street.

More stories, more singing, more strolling, more sangria.

When we finally head uptown, the day has become night.

We stop for sake at a sushi bar, appetizers at a Catalan restaurant, entrees at a gourmet pizza place.

Somewhere between pizza and my apartment, it hits me:

It’s been two and a half years since I’ve gotten lost on a Saturday in New York City with a man whose appetite for life equals mine.

With a man whose stories are more captivating than mine.

With a man who shamelessly kisses my hand and sings in public.

With a man who makes me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.