"Don't worry, we're not snooping," she explains to the other couple. "That's ours."

My friend was right about Anna keeping me on my toes.

In the next house, we stand on the back porch and enjoy a jaw-dropping view of the afternoon sun bleeding into downtown. It's unusually clear for Los Angeles; we can even see the mountains towering over the skyscrapers like mirages. I reach over and hold Anna's hand and the moment feels more intimate than any other first date I've had in a while, even the ones that ended in bed. I realize how much I want that second "adult" date, but when I glance over I catch the realtor watching us from the kitchen window. Anna sees him too and I wonder if she's only holding my hand for his benefit.

The last house we visit is a cozy Craftsman fixer-upper nestled high up in the hills. We gaze up at its skylight, finger its fireplace masonry and accept the realtor's glossy business card, complete with smiling headshot, all without a single wisecrack. Another couple our age smiles at us. We recognize them from a previous house and as we leave; they're talking with the realtor in hushed, excited tones.

Out in the driveway, Anna and I fall silent for the first time on our date. I'm sure we're thinking the same thing: that other young couple is buying their dream home while we've been playing pretend. We've both fallen a tiny bit in love with this charming little bungalow with the sunset view and its implied endless possibilities, and we're suddenly taking stock of our own lackluster apartments, careers and futures in a way that can kill the mood of even the most ironic first date.

Back in the car, I play tour guide and point out a couple local points of interest, including a hole-in-the-wall taqueria with the city's best molé sauce, but Anna apologetically says she got a lot work to get back to. By the time I drop her off, it's dark out and the date's fizzled. Anna gives me a hug goodbye, a poker-faced smile and starts walking up the steps to a graffitied old apartment building that's pretty instantly forgettable.

I curse myself for such a stupid idea. Why not just take my first date to a maternity ward? Or better yet, a funeral home to go mock coffin shopping? That might have been less awkward.

As Anna disappears inside her walk-up, I break every rule in my book, dial her cell and ask her out for a plain old boring drink. A woman like this needs to be kept on her toes.
 

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