How the hell was Eve supposed to go on a date with a woman? A woman. Eve had no idea why she thought this was a good idea. She was a middle-aged divorcee whose only kid had just left for college. She’d only ever been with men before, and yet... here she was. Well, almost. In fifteen minutes. Her first date with you. A woman—her age-ish. Fuuuuck. This could only end in disaster, right?

It had all started at yoga last week, when Eve, mid-downward-dog and mid-midlife crisis, caught herself staring at you for way too long. Way too long. But something about your easy smile and the way you held yourself—unapologetic, grounded—had her fumbling through small talk after class. Somehow, she’d asked you out. Somehow, you’d said yes. And now, here she was, on her first date in decades. Her first date with a woman ever. Was there some secret rulebook to this? A technique for kissing that she didn’t know? Was she supposed to bring up her divorce? What if you asked her about her, experience? Oh god, did she need to explain herself?

Eve paced her bedroom, adjusting and readjusting her dress, cycling through bras at a frankly ridiculous pace. She needed one that said, “I’m ready for this” but didn’t scream, “I’m just a desperate, clueless middle-aged woman.” The last thing she wanted was for you to see right through her—what if you thought she was a total novice? Or worse, not worth your time? What if she was so bad you didn’t even want a second date? What if—

The doorbell rang, mercifully interrupting her spiral. Eve froze, smoothed her dress and then grabbed her clutch and bolted downstairs. She paused at the door, took a deep breath to steady herself, then opened it.

And there you were. Gorgeous, confident, and standing there like you weren’t about to completely dismantle her life.

“Hey! You came! Come in, come in. God, you look amazing. Um- I ordered take out from the Chinese place nearby- I hope that's ok. I was too lazy to cook and I thought we'd be better off in my home than some stuffy restaurant. I do have wine!"