Travis has a slightly sardonic sense of humor that I can bounce right off of. We hassle each other like we’ve been doing it for years. He teases me when I admit I still have every birthday card I’ve ever received. I tease him about the fact that he has a favorite brand of sticky note.
It shouldn’t feel this natural.
We also continue to find more things in common. We both secretly love reality cooking shows, but only the ones where things go wrong, and we both think people who clap when planes land should be put on a no-fly list.
During our main course, I notice he’s taken all the end pieces from the bread basket.
“You’re one of those people who eats the end pieces of bread?” I ask, mock horrified.
“End pieces have more structural integrity for butter application,” he says, like this is a normal thing to consider.
“That might be the most engineer thing I’ve ever heard. You really do conform to your job stereotype.”
“Says the person who just arranged their vegetables in rainbow order.”
I look down at my plate. Damn. I did do that.
“It’s called eating the rainbow, and it’s supposed to be healthy,” I reply, and Travis laughs.
I could listen to the sound of his laugh all day.
This is the world’s best first date. Undoubtably. If they gave awards for these kinds of things, we’d be Olympic Gold medalists.
Because it’s beyond just superficial things we have in common. There’s a depth to our conversation I’ve never had before on a first date. We discuss whether social media has made people lonelier or just made the loneliness more visible. We talk about what we’d do if money weren’t a factor. He’d build pedestrian bridges in underserved communities, and I’d design picture books for kids in hospitals.
For dessert, Travis orders tiramisu, then proceeds to eat it layer by layer.
“You’re deconstructing dessert now?” I ask.
“I like to taste each component separately first.”
“Control issues much?”
“Do I need to remind you about your ROYGBIV vegetables?”
“That’s art. This is a dessert crime.”
As we continue eating dessert, we end up talking about our childhood.
“I redesigned my bedroom every three months. It drove my parents insane. I once painted a mural of the solar system on my ceiling without asking.”
“Did they make you paint over it?”
“No. Dad actually helped me fix Jupiter when I had the proportions wrong.” I smile at the memory. “He said if I was going to dream big, I might as well get it correct.”
“Is that why you became interested in graphic design?”
“Partly. I want to design things that make people feel something.” I fidget with my spoon. “What made you want to do structural engineering?”
“My grandfather was an engineer. He’d take me to construction sites, show me how things hold together.” He pauses. “He died when I was fifteen. Every design, I think about whether he’d approve of the math.”
“That’s beautiful.”
He gives a rueful smile. “It’s probably more grief dressed up as career motivation.”
“Can’t it be both?”
He adjusts his glasses as he considers the question, and the gesture draws my attention to his hands. He has long fingers and neat nails. They look like the kind of hands that would be precise about everything they did. “Yeah. I suppose it can. I really like my job. I like the idea of designing something that lasts longer than I will. Something people will still use in a hundred years.”
