What is turning out to be a never-ending story, part three

So. This guy I met. Man do I have a lot to sum up again. Tell me when I’m boring you.

Anyway, that was the Saturday night / Sunday morning experience. I actually think I went up to him saying: so you’re the guy going on a world trip, huh? Just to be clear on what this (one) night entails. I was there to have no-strings-attached fun. Perfect plan since he was leaving. And as I said, he wrote that Sunday asking if we shouldn’t meet up again some time that week. What the hell, thought I, I’m kinda single, good to make new friends. And I did mean friends. I told him I didn’t have much time, since I was going home for Christmas that Wednesday and suggested to meet up for coffee Tuesday after work – harmless, right? For some reason I got nervous that evening anyway. What would we talk about? What if I didn’t like the kid in an everyday, sober state?

When I got there, he asked if I was more hungry or thirsty. We met outside, and apparently, he had understood it as just a meeting point. He suggested we go to the Christmas market (it was December), just as I was thinking the same thing. He was impressed with my nonchalant, I don’t care attitude, whereas I was thinking I just don’t want the responsibility of choosing. So he bought me some mulled wine, then Met, then by chance we saw the friend we had in common waiting around. At that point I guess we were already tipsy and being a little obvious in our attraction to each other, because after some chatting they told us to get a room. Which we then did, but only after stopping to see the ponys. Because, come on – ponys.

He suggested we go get take-out thai food and go back to his place to watch a movie. And I remember thinking: wow, this is exactly what I would do if I were alone right now. Turns out, being in his company is not awkward at all. Not even the small talk, which we are both bad at. Feminist that I am, I paid for the food (to even out the drinks) and we walked to his apartment, which his roommate had just moved out of. It was really cozy, I felt right at ease, and we had a wonderful evening. So much so that I didn’t want to leave. The clock turned to midnight, then one a.m., then a decision had to be made: stay the night and take the walk of shame to work the next morning, or leave appropriately? I had an idea: since my stomach was still psychosomatically acting up, my coworkers had taken notice that I wasn’t feeling so well. So that night I walked home, but the next morning I called in sick at work. That way I had time to pack my suitcase for France and arrange the apartment. Then he came over after his work, so that we could spend the afternoon together. At that point, even though I hate admitting this, I think it was already all butterflies and excitement and pleasure and I didn’t see the time go by. Until it was time to get out of our bubble and for me to take the train. He carried my suitcase to the station, where he kissed me good-bye and I had three hazy hours before me in an altered state of mind and his smell clinging to me.

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