Neither Ivyan nor Margo were looking to fall in love. They both had recently endured a traumatic end to relationships that were, let's just say- not so good. However, scrolling through the Bumble dating app, Yan caught Margo's eye. Tall, check. Handsome, check. He looked to be employed and possibly had all his teeth. No shirtless pictures holding a fish or a shotgun by a dead deer. Apparently, he also brought magic? "Well," Margo figured, "Let's see what this magic is about..."

Margo was

Their chats were easy. Fun. Playful. The couple had been messaging for about a week when Margo thought, "What the hell." She asked Yan if he might be free that night and if so, interested in having dinner with her. He was, and yes he was. It was raining. No, not just raining, but pouring. The dark sky opened that evening the way a summer storm rolls through on a hot July night. It had been a warm week for December. The two agreed to meet at Palladar, a Cuban rum bar situated equal distant from Bryn Mawr and Pheonixville.

Margo had never been to the restaurant and poorly judged the time it would take to drive in the downpour and then park. She rushed to put her one stiletto boot back on. (Impossible for her leadfoot to work in heels). She checked her makeup, removed her glasses and quickly fumbled with her umbrella and her purse, click, click, clicking her way to the heavy restaurant door.

She breathlessly said hello to the hostess, telling her she was meeting someone, shaking the droplets from her raincoat and unbuttoning it. Did the hostess tell her he was waiting at the bar? She doesn't remember. Trying to bee less 'on fire,' she turned to her right and they saw each other...

He looked at her. He looked so cool. Like a spy nonchalant kind of cool. He stood and began to settle his tab. Was he taller than she imagined? "That must be that new 'beastie coat' he was telling me about," she thought. "Oh my god, I'm nervous. Like really nervous." "Shit, shit, shit." Margo folded her wet coat over her arm and walked toward him.

Time stopped.

Though Yan had begun to settle his bill (fucker bested her by being early), he asked her if she wanted to have a drink at the bar first. She agreed, exhaled and sank into the cushioned stool as his eyes danced over her cheeks. they began with small talk- the storm, the drive. He told her about the restaurant and their extensive Cuban rum selections. They ordered, the drinks arrived, and then. Well, it just got easy. they talked, they laughed, they finished their cocktails and decided to finally be seated.

His name wasn't Yan, well not exactly. His parents crafted Ivyan and Yanni had been his nickname growing up.(A particularly good one for Paul, his Greek stepfather). Yanni worked, until a certain Greek Keyboardist hit the scene in the late 80's and early 90's. Yan was easier to pronounce and less likely to make his name sound like drinking water. Yan and John are interchangeable for takeout orders to this day.

Okay, so Ivyan ordered, as he had been there before. Margo tried her best to not be clumsy with the shrimp ceviche, which ate like balancing an elephant on an umbrella. They talked. They learned that they had lived very parallel lives to the extent, dear Reader, that this story may seem like fiction. But it's true. They were both tragically widowed and because of their unbearable states at those times, made terrible relationship and life choices. Nobody really gets narcissism until they live it. It's pain and doubt. It's brutal, it's selfish and it's ugly. But they survived, and confided in each other. They traded stories, not in a going 'toe to toe' kind of way, but more like a "Wow, I can't believe we have this much in common" kind of way.

The restaurant had emptied. Bussers had run out of silver to polish. Was there the drone of a vacuum in another room? Their server, hoping to finally drop the check, asked if they could bring anything else. Margo didn't want the evening to end. They had been talking for hours, but it just wasn't enough time. "Maybe another glass of cab?" she asked. The poor waitress aquiessed. After that last drink, the couple couldn't put off leaving their table any longer. They were well-aware that they had outstayed their welcome at Palladar. Weary smiles wished them goodnight as they slowly pulled on coats and gathered things.

The rain had not yielded. It felt as though they should be walking into a rainbow, but the rain fell in steady shiny beaded curtains of unrelenting wet. Ivyan held an umbrella the size of a lawn chair over the couple. They said their pleasantries, but knew what was to come... The kiss