The sun brightened what was an unseasonably warm October 15th. 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 15th, 20th 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.’