First Met

Thanks to Copilot and Google translate this translation was much quicker, two cheers for both!

When I first met her it wasn’t her first time of course, that hardly ever happens these days.
I was seventeen when I met her for the first time.
First meetings always made me nervous, the feeling that I don’t know what they know about me gives me chills.
She arrived as a complete surprise, my mom didn’t tell me what was going on even though they had arranged in advance.
She simply opened the door and introduced us.

When I realized she was my wife I froze.
I had several friends who had already met their partners, but they started with texting and phone calls, and only then would they arrange a time to meet in advance.
With five minutes’ notice, I put on my nicest shirt (without having time to shower, and I smelled a bit) and we went to an Italian restaurant.
Still embarrassed, I stared silently at the menu.
Eventually, she broke the silence.
“I think I’ll take their lasagna, it’s great.”
“Yeah, it looks good,” I managed to reply.
I couldn’t concentrate on the menu, my mind was racing trying to think of what to say.
“What are you taking?” She asked, her eyes sparkled as she looked at me. I couldn’t keep eye contact.
“I’m not sure…”
“I recommend their cheese ravioli, it’s a great dish.”
“Where…?”
“At the pasta section,” she said, reaching across the table. She gently took my hand and pointed the menu at her.
She flipped one page back and pointed. “Here”.
“Thank you” I mumbled.
“It’s your favorite.”
Everything was too much - every touch, every word, everything I was supposed to know. Maybe I’m really not ready for this. While glancing at her I noticed she was smiling, she seemed amused. “What?” I asked, a small chuckle escaping me. Suddenly the comicness of my tragic embarrassment struck me.
“It’s funny that you haven’t asked anything yet.”
Of course! This was my first date with her, and I had lots of questions.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“How long have you known me?” “Four years, about two months ago.” “And how old am I?”
That was a stupid way to phrase that question.
“You are seventeen.” she teased.
“You know what I mean.”
“We’re not consistently at a certain age, we both travel a lot because of work, so we usually arrange to meet up with 5-year gap at most. In our last streak you were twenty-seven.”
twenty seven! A decade separated me from… myself.
“So you’re not continuous?”
“Wer’e not continuous.” She corrected me. It was still hard for me to realize that I was a part of this story.
“You’ll get used to it.” she said.
I looked into her eyes. Suddenly I noticed how beautiful she was. She had a mesmerizing grace.
“It just doesn’t feel real.” I apologized.
She thought for a moment and gave me a series look.
“Would you like to see pictures?”
It wasn’t customary to look at pictures of your older self, there were so many stupid superstitions about it, the kind of “If you look at the picture, history will change”, of course it’s all nonsense. I think. But curiosity got the better of me.
“I think I would.”
She started scrolling through her phone, after a few seconds she handed it to me, face down.
I hesitated, but the idea of the act itself excited me.
I flipped the phone and was surprised by how mundane the picture looked.
It was a picture of the two of us during some mountain hike, wearing warm clothes and sunglasses, not much of our bodies or faces were visible.
Still, without a doubt — it was me.
A bit sturdier, with a groomed beard and a different haircut, and with a more mature look, more confident in himself… in myself.
It was me, and she was by my side. Both in an affectionate one arm hug.
“Scroll right.” she said.
There were a few more pictures from the same hike, there was a photo of her sticking out her tongue, one of me drinking water, another of the two of both of us smiling together against the mountainous backdrop. With each picture my heart was filled with another bit of relief. He is happy. I had nothing to worry about. We will be happy.
As I kept scrolling I suddenly came across a picture of me kneeling in front of her.
Our gloves placed on the ground next to me, my hand held hers, sliding a beautiful silver ring onto her finger.
Only then did I notice the ring on her hand right now, that delicate and perfect silver ring with a written engraving.
She followed my gaze to the ring.
“You proposed to me last week.”
She was my fiancée! It shouldn’t have surprised me. It was common to go on the first date after getting engaged.
“And he… I mean I - went on the first date with you?”
“At this very restaurant,” she said, “you took the ravioli, and you recommended the lasagna.”
That playful and amused smile appeared on her face again.
I looked at her and for the first time in my life the pressure of the first meeting completely faded away, and I felt safe.