Where did you come from, sweet stranger?
I've known you for two hours and all I can think of is kissing you.
You showed up at the cafe with your retro motorbike and an extra helmet for me, and I put my arms gingerly around you, expecting to be terrified as we roared away. Instead, I fell in love.
With the bike. The bike. I hardly know you.
But I want to.
You're easy to talk to.
Or you would be, if I didn't get so flustered every time we made eye contact that I stammer and reach for my water glass. Which would be fine, except it's been empty for the past ten minutes.
I have no context for this. This is why I've never 'dated'. When you meet people through work you have a mutual background, mutual friends, mutual lifestyles.
You rehearse, say, a show together. You are thrown into the pressure cooker and you become close. Also, you have a reason to be together, every day.
But we steal time together around our work. Our decidedly non-mutual work.
An impulsive coffee date four days ago and I've seen him every day since.
I learn to love the feeling of the wind against my body as we roar down the highway. I learn to wrap my arms and legs around him, lean into the turns, shout conversation at red lights. On the bike, I feel totally safe with him.
He drops me off at home and we kiss in the alley at the back of my house. And kiss. And kiss.
Until the shadowy neighbourhood tomcats are jealous
Until our noses are cold
Until my brain turns to mush
Until we disengage, reluctantly, and kiss again, and wave goodbye. It's 1:30 am. I get up at 7.
I don't know what this means. I don't know what this is. I don't know if that matters.
Today I am tired, running on empty after my late night. Sitting on my hay wagon, singing children's songs to enthusiastic strangers, I remember the cause of my late night, and grin.