How to surprise the sh*t out of your girlfriend
In honor of the fifth anniversary of the greatest surprise anyone ever pulled on me in my life, I figured I’d do what I do best … and write about it.
Happy hour with Angela highlighted whatever week our schedules aligned to make it happen, but I looked forward to that Tuesday’s meeting with something close to desperation. The day before began with a passive-aggressive reaming-out by my magazine’s deputy editor and ended with a Metro track problem outside of Rosslyn, which delayed my subway trip home by 45 minutes. That morning, I’d overslept, and during a midday doctor’s appointment, the nurse practitioner suggested that a patch of itchy red bumps clustered around my left ankle might be bedbug bites. Terrified, I took the rest of the afternoon off to toss every soft surface in my condo in search of the pests. I stopped only when my iPhone beeped its half-hour-til-happy-hour warning and I hadn’t yet found an insect.
I walked the four blocks from home to Lyon Hall thinking how, if Dan were home, just maybe, much of the week’s unpleasantness wouldn’t have happened. But he wasn’t coming back from Tanzania until Saturday, so wine and a dear friend would be enough to cope, for now. I half-smiled as I walked in and nodded past the hostess toward the bar – an unspoken code for, “No, I don’t have a reservation. I’m just here to drink.” It was two minutes to six, and I didn’t see Angela anywhere. The Clarendon post-work crowd almost filled the bistro to capacity, but I spotted two open stools at the end of the bar, near where the servers came to pick up their orders. I grabbed one and tossed my bag on the other to reserve it for Angela.
“Wine list, please?” I asked the bartender, and before he could walk away I ordered the least expensive chardonnay on the menu. Within a minute, he returned with the glass, and I took the first sip as soon as I could, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.
“Sorry I’m late!” Angela said, her voice hitting my ears at the same time her jacket hit the seat on the stool I’d saved for her.
“Oh, please,” I said, opening my eyes and then turning toward her for a hug. “As long as you’re OK with me starting already.”
“By all means. From what you said about this week, it sounds like you need it,” she replied. Our pleasantries continued, bookending her order of a glass of red. When it arrived, we clinked goblets without toasting and continued our conversation.
I don’t remember how long we chatted before I heard a voice behind me ask, “Excuse me, but is this seat taken?” I felt irritated for a split-second, because I knew there wasn’t, in fact, an empty seat anywhere near me. I wasn’t in the mood to be kind to such a lame flirter. Turning around in my stool, eyes rolling and tongue poised to deliver a smart reply, I looked at the speaker. And I froze.
It was Dan, but my mind struggled to process it. He wasn’t supposed to be there, not within five thousand miles of there, and, and, and … what the hell was he doing there?
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked, stumbling over every word. It was almost hard to recognize him. His hair had lightened a few shades after three weeks in the East African sun, and his freckles, which usually went into hibernation by mid-November, had brightened across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t until he said, “Well, do I at least get a hug?” that I realized I hadn’t moved yet. I hopped off the stool and into his hug, almost enjoying the unique scent of stale airplane smell that clung to his overcoat after nearly 24 hours of travel.
Meantime, Angela had found a spare stool in some corner of the bar and brought it over. Dan sat down and we ordered another round. For the next hour, the two of them explained in detail how they collaborated in pulling off this early homecoming without giving me even the slightest hint. I listened, smiling, sipping, and thinking about how happy I was to have such wonderful – if conspiratorial – people in my life.