The sun brightened what was an unseasonably warm October 15^th.  My hand was still swollen from the yellowjacket sting that had pointed out two days before the unfortunate fact that I have an anaphylactic allergy to the little bastards. I winced as I unthinkingly slammed the car door with that hand.  My right hand.  Of course.  I shrugged my purse higher on my shoulder and ambled over to the coffee shop door.  This was, what, the 15^th, 20^th blind date since I started Internet dating?  I wasn’t particularly hopeful but neither was I discouraged.  It would be whatever it would be and at the very least I would have a latte out of it. I started to reach for the door, stopped myself and switched to my left hand.  As I did, I turned slightly to the right and glanced through the plate glass window.  I stopped.  He had dark curly hair. He had dark eyes.  And, lord, he had a moustache. And a beard.  A nice, trim, Van Dyke kind of beard. ‘Gawd I hope that’s him.’