Hamish and Lulu

He walked into the lobby. It was a small hotel, built low and drab on a prime piece of land on the city's riverfront; they had picked it as a reasonably neutral place to meet, and because the surrounding countryside would be attractive even if neither of them were. The short-short-nap carpet generated sparks as he walked toward the desk, checked in, then settled down in an armchair to wait.

She came in. He spotted her right away; he had had pictures, of course, but she would have stuck out in this town regardless. She had a multicolored scarf wrapped around her neck at least three times. She was even shorter than he imagined. And she had a grin on her face wide enough to park his car in as she spotted him. A big hug initiated the in-person phase of their friendship. Then they got into the elevator, and began yet another phase right on the heels of the second. Neither of them minded skipping a few steps. It never seemed to last, but it was still possible to be happy, for a little while, if you could manage to share yourself.

There was long conversation. There was fall color on aimless meanders. There was a waterfall in the dead center of a college town. There were many photographs. There was a lot of time spent in bed. There was a tense moment down by the riverfront at 2 AM with some french fries, though he was too clueless to sense it while it was happening. There was even Dunkin Donuts. But he didn't fall in love with her. And that was going to be a problem.