There is something powerful about the fear of being alone that drives even the most resolutely introverted among us to make strange decisions. So I found myself at a party on new year's that, by virtue of being a party, I didn't particularly want to be at. At the time it sounded better than the alternative.
I must have been giving off some strong "not having fun" vibes; most of the people who talked to me started with "Are you okay?" and I had to force a smile and say something like "Yeah, just tired," and then we'd engage in awkward party talk until there was a pause long enough for one of us to make our excuses and wander off, or, occasionally, just quietly slip away. But, credit where it's due, the woman who had commandeered the bar made some pretty solid drinks and I did enjoy the excuse to dress up.
Shortly before midnight, when I'd ducked outside to get some air, I encountered someone else who seemed to be having as much fun as I was, and we just sat on the back porch and talked. The exact sort of quiet conversation I enjoyed, with someone who was interesting and who laughed at my jokes and didn't seem to find the sound of my voice annoying. At midnight she told me, "I think I'd like to kiss you," and I told her I'd be okay with that. And once it was no longer impolite to leave I walked her back to her house, which was not far, and then walked back to mine, which was.
There was a time in my life I really loved the idea of having a meet-cute, something spontaneous and romantic that drew me together with my partner. I even dated a few people where I tried to manufacture that moment, with limited success. Back then I would have scoffed at "We met at a party where we were both older than everyone else there and we just found that we liked talking to each other" as a story of the beginning of a relationship, but it feels comforting now, like drinking tea in the winter, wrapped up in blankets, watching a fire. And sometimes comforting is what you need.
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