I think I’ve met a guy. No, for real. You know, the kind that asks you on dates and sends you off in your taxi with the promise of more in his eyes.
Rewind.
Work. Rehearsal. Dance, dance, dance. My skin is awfully sticky and although I’ve changed back into my dress, I still smell like rotten onion. What I need right now is a shower and a comfy bed with a flowery blanket. After hanging around watching other shows and figuring out which bus to catch, I end up being dragged along to a reggae bar when I don’t have a reggae bone in me. Anything for you my dear. Let’s call it a special cast party. We’re sitting there chatting it away (politics, what else coud you possibly throw into an international group of people at 10pm?) when I notice something strange at the corner of my eye.
‘At the pool, there! I know this guy! I have no idea where I know him from but I do know him’
Best Friend turns around and casually remarks:
‘He’s the dude that threw up all over the bathroom at the hotel party’
‘Uh oh. Also known as…?’
‘T something. Turner? Tiger? Oh, I got it: Ted!’
‘Riiiight! He was at the karaoke party too. We were briefly introduced to each other and then I got busy inflicting my terrible singing to the rest of you and didn’t give him a second thought. Maybe I should have…’
I couldn’t tell why but Ted reminds me of this American guy I used to date, who was so damn sweet and would cook us banana pancakes on Sunday mornings. How romantic can you get? In the end, I dumped him for an asshole of mine but that’s another piece of memoirs. Poor Ted, victim of my flourishing romantic imagination without having a scoobi-clue. Best Friend being the social animal he is, goes straight to the guy and gets him over to our table.
Wow, Ted can remember me.Within fifteen minutes, we’re discussing lingerie and I am wondering how we got there. I have a certain tendency to get carried away, it seems. Especially when talking to a representative of the male kind. Best Friend saves me half of the embarrassment by suggesting that we should go over to his to chill out for a bit. The diversion is quite welcome on my part. At least now I know I am in for a long night out.
I think Ted likes me. He’s taken down my phone number and then asked for it again. It goes without saying that he appropriately decided to leave the artsy after party when I did and sent me off with a ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ classic. I don’t mind classics, for that matter.
In your best soap opera style, I invited him to see our Butoh show tomorrow. There are two things I didn’t realize on the spot:
1. My phone is completely out of order so he might try to ring me and not get through. Agony of a week it’s going to be. Well, I am going to play ‘hard to get’ for once.
2. I forgot to mention that we’re talking about a dance show where I am meant to be wearing the skimpiest costume ever. White loose trouser with a tube top that uncovers everything except the strategic parts. Omg. He’s going to see me half-naked before we even start anything. Pure gross.
