Week one in the city, I decide to do nothing and see what happens. What happened was this: I bumped into lots of men I’d previously fancied, smiled at a lot of strangers, asked for directions and got a generally friendly vibe from my new city.
I attended social functions in seemingly parallel universes. I perched in a outdoor upstairs cage at the back of a classy bar while my designer-dressed darling school friends drank champagne for dinner and blew smoke. A too drunk man in a button up shirt asked for my name.
The next day I sprawled on a picnic blanket in the backyard of a uni friend, eating organic produce from their garden and overheard someone actually say “Oh yeah, we met at the anarchist book club society.” I marvelled that such societies existed in such a city and Tent Guy sat next to me. It was the first time I’d seen him since We Danced That Time. We had an amiable and un-awkward conversation.
The following evening I went to see a contemporary dance performance then a world music gig, where I bumped into I Don’t Drink Coffee Guy. History repeated. An offer was offered yet I didn’t take it, despite the total babe on offer. ‘I should show you around the city sometime,’ he offered, ‘Sure!’ I replied. Then without ensuring that happened by, oh, I don’t know, giving him my number or something, I flounced off on to the dance floor. Face palm.
Then I danced with a muso I used to fancy, but when he seemed to take every conversation as an opportunity to educate me (including about my own favourite dancers and why they are unoriginal) I lost interest.
My second week in the city was much more eventful- I met a match maker, went speed dating and pashed a guy on a train…
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