Chemistry was never a good subject for me. In High School, I completely sucked at it. This was partly due to having a teacher with a really incoherent accent. All I heard was something something something something supersaturated something something. Supersaturated. The only word I was able to digest all semester. She even called on me once, and I just said “supersaturated?” and was met with a look of serious disappointment. My saving grace was actually a classmate who took a liking to teenage-Brownstone and um… assisted me on all the exams.

Identifying elements and mixing substances aside, chemistry didn’t necessarily parlay over to my romantic life either. It was rare, and just as incomprehensible. I’ve been out with quite a few girls that I’ve been attracted to in a myriad of ways but that chemistry was always elusive.

With this heavy on my thoughts in recent days, I arrived at the corner of the breakfast spot that Mango and I agreed to. I was seven minutes early and I leaned against a phone booth for just a split second when I saw her crossing the street towards me. I barely had a moment to react, but all I remember was feeling absolute euphoria. That is, as euphoric as one can get before 8am on a Sunday.

It was a simple breakfast, just the way I had hoped it would be. We caught up on our recent happenings - me with writing my novel, stress at work, and bad date stories - and Mango with her recent boy-troubles. Thats right, boy-troubles. Apparently, she met some guy shortly after our meltdown in January - and he has been nothing short of psychotic (from how she described it). Without getting into too many details, lets just say there is a restraining order out on him. Yes,that psychotic. Welcome to NYC, Mango. Stress consumed her recent days and she had been contemplating returning home to Bangkok. I vowed to make our planned Wednesday night out one to forget (at least temporarily) all these troubles.

Days move fast when you have something to look forward to. Wednesday rolled around almost as soon as I paid the breakfast check. I came armed with a mini chart that I uncreatively dubbed the “smile meter” housing 50 empty squares that needed to be checked off everytime I put a smile on her face during the evening. It was just a small, modest goal that I wanted her to reach and we had fun filling square by square rather effortlessly throughout the night. Crazy, yes. But that’s how Brownstone rolls.

We dined in one of my favorite Vietnamese spots a couple blocks south of Canal. We then hit up a fascinating show down on the Seaport. By evenings end, she exceeded the 50 smile plateau - mission accomplished. I had a great time with her - and whatever it is that we had, was roaring back. I felt it. I am sure she did as well. We were close again. Though we are taking it slow and trying to hang out as friends only, anyone would have easily mistaken us for much, much more. It is in the way we sat together at the show. It is in the way she grabs onto me when I clown on her. It is in the way she held my hand when walking back from the Seaport to the uptown trains. What that is, I am sure… is that once, miserable subject for me - chemistry.

Mango and I just have it. It’s unmistakable. Unless I am imagining things (gosh, I hope I’m not), I am positive that our properties are aligning, matching up, combining, fusing… all in a supersaturated mix of all the crap that I never figured out from that horrific High School Chemistry teacher. Our matter, matters.

At least, for now . . .