The party winds down, and we head out for some food. We ask a museum guard for a recommendation, and he suggests a local pizza place, which sounds fine to me, but Mr Faraway says, no, I’m used to eating a little better than that around you.

We wander, not too purposefully, holding hands as we walk, and each time we stop for a light to change, he pulls me close.

Eventually, we settle on a Thai restaurant, and chat about this and that as we wait for our pad thai. He has been taking care not to mention his almost-Ex, and I’ve been trying not to mention The Departed. Statements about them tended to be along the lines of, I like this now, I wish he or she would have done this when we were married. It was better for us, we agreed, to simply focus on the things we liked, and leave off the reminders of past disappointments. So we chat, merrily, but with a bit of effort at the points where we have to remind ourselves about things and people best left in the past. It’s a pleasant conversation, all the more so for our awareness of it.

The food arrives, and I remark on very pleasant it is to have a pleasant chat over dinner, but I slip and continue the sentence: So many of our meals were eaten in silence, when I was married.

He sits back and looks perplexed, hesitating. I don’t know how to say this, he says finally, but here is what I want to know. Why the hell did you marry him in the first place?

On Friday, I drive to meet him at the SciFi Museum. There’s a party for a new exhibit, complete with lectures and stage combat demos and butterbeer and mead tastings. It promises to be complete, joyful Nerdvana, but I’m mad at myself as I drive: I’ve spoiled everything. After a long, awkward evening and with a sense of obligation, I’ll get my kiss for sure, terse and perfunctory. Or worse, the anticipation will be enough to make us both back away, into a strained friendship, never to mention or even acknowledge this brief foray toward something else.

I park in a lot near the museum, and he texts me: Where are you parked? Wait there.

I had thought of meeting him at the entrance, but maybe it’s crowded there. I lean against my car, waiting and choking back the coming disappointment.

He walks toward me from the direction of the museum entrance, and I can see he’s loaded down again, like he was the first time we met for dinner. But as he gets closer, I can see what he’s carrying: a large bouquet of flowers, which he hands me, then puts his arms around me and kisses me.

It is everything I wanted and nothing I feared.

I slide my arm around him and pull him close, and we walk to the museum entrance. We walk by people dressed as characters from Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Star Wars. As we watch a swordfighting demo, he stands behind me and holds me close, like a cape against the wind. We pick up some free Magic the Gathering card packs, and I give him mine, for his son. We sample the beer and spit out the mead.

After a while, we go in to one of the lectures, by the archivist for the Jim Henson Foundation. It’s in a large auditorium, and we take seats toward the back; he puts an arm around me and I lock my fingers through his. We watch early footage of Kermit the Frog, and sing along with the whole audience to the Fraggle Rock theme song.

My arm falls asleep first, then my fingers, but I don’t let go.

That night, I receive a long stream-of-consciousness in my inbox. He’s worried that he met me too quickly after his ex left; I’m much more than a transition person. I’m a city girl to his country mouse; he’s worried that I’m out of his league. He remembers how hard he and his sister were on their father’s girlfriends; he doesn’t want me to have to be on the receiving end of anything like that from his own kids.

He’s detail-oriented: he’s thought of every last thing and found a worry to have about each item on the list, which he rattles off in no particular order but with an increasing sense of panic.

He calls me again, and tries to explain his jumble of thoughts and fears.

Things are much simpler for me, though: I just want to spend time with someone whose company I enjoy. I tell him this, and by way of explanation, remind him that I’ve been in legal, committed relationships twice, and they didn’t turn out so well for me.

I just need the lines to be a bit clearer right now, I tell him. If we’re just friends, that’s fine, but I need to do some things differently if that’s the case. And if that’s not the case, then I don’t understand what you are waiting for.

Kiss me already, I want to tell him, or maybe I do. I think I do.

I understand, he says.