My Valentine plans

This is a strange time for me; I'm acting so much out of character all the time that I'm coming to doubt that I have a character, or maybe I'm morphing into someone I don't know yet, which isn't bad per se, not at all, just troubling.

I booked two tickets for an all-night dance party in a big industrial space in Paris, on the 13th of February. I love dancing, but I am very, very bad at it. Imagine a 5'10 graham cracker on LSD and you'll have an idea. I hate dancing in front of people, but when I'm in need of some cheering up, it's up with the music and on with the prancing around in my room. Also, most people are shy when it comes to dancing, and rely on chemical components to loosen up. Which for me is totally out of the question.

Well, we're taking this show to the road. We're going to break some moves!
Oh God, I'm so bad at this stuff. I have no game. Why? Why can't I just glide effortlessly on the dance floor, shake those hips and seemlessly weave my magic around my prey? Because I have no coordination, that's what.

And I've invited someone I like to come with me to a 90's Dance Music Rave Party. On Valentine's night.

"What is this thing all about, anyway?"

"We'll dance all night in a warehouse. And I'll be wearing a Spice Girl T-shirt."

Small pause.

"Done."

I like him, I really do.

ps: any dancing tips will be very very appreciated.

Impetuous

I can't sleep. I'm nervous about all the finals, papers and Christmas gifts I'll never have the time to purchase.
My phone vibrates.
"Are you sleeping? Want to watch a movie at my place?"

It's one in the morning. I ponder for half a second, then slip out of bed, throw on a pair of jeans and a warm sweater, don't even bother to prettify my sleepy countenance, and go off in the cold, silent streets.

He has the requisite tiny student apartment, but it's so tidy and stylish, it looks more like a catalogue student apartment. I look around.
"Do you actually live here?"
He laughs.
"Yeah, I do, but since I've been interning and going out quite a lot, I have no food in the fridge to prove it."

I settle on his couch and we start talking. It's a desultory conversation, filled with un-awkward silences and the occasional yawn. We're both tired but I can tell he doesn't want to break off now, because the flow of words feels good. We talk about everything, the way you do when you get to know someone you're attracted to.

The inevitable tension settles in, and it becomes less if, than when one of us will lean in to kiss the other. But as the conversation goes on, there's no hurry. We both know, and we're old enough to enjoy the slowness, the flirtatiousness of this early morning conversation, and the curious feeling that whispering can give to perfectly innocuous words. Every movement feels momentous. Every smile feels like a secret shared. It's pretty much perfect.

And when I fell asleep in his arms, still in my jeans and sweater, it felt like the best impetuous decision I had made in a long time.

Hard to please

I tentatively went on another "date". It wasn't a date in the French way- it was a pizza with a guy from my economics class. But I know he's interested. So in a way it was a date.
Anyhow, it went well compared to my Groping Misadventure. He's polite and well-spoken. He helped me in and out of my coat. He pulled my chair back for me. He opens doors. He gave me a ride home. He asked me thoughtful questions about political topics; we're both history nerds and he is a musician. We even like the same kind of rock and roll.

So why am I complaining?

I'm not. He was nice. But he had no edge to him. He was too slow for me. It felt like driving a Moped after being used to a Yamaha. He didn't see ahead in the conversation, didn't see the jokes, wasn't funny or witty. I was in control of the evening, and I like being surprised once in a while.

Anyhow, definite upgrade from last time. He invited me to go to an open-mike jazz evening where he will be playing with his band. I may go.

But I'm hard to please, clearly. X is a hard act to follow.