I originally met #173 on the same pub crawl that introduced me to #170. Her radical queer perspective was refreshing to encounter, so I was more than a little perplexed by the response from my subconscious: I dreamed that night about the two of us holding hands while we walked around IKEA.
I sporadically ran into her on the scene, where we’d bond over our common interests and I’d try really hard to be cool. (“She is the hottest lesbian on the planet,” advised the 20-year-old very tactile, very passive gay boy I was still failing to get off with.) After sufficient Dutch courage, I lunged at her one night in Disko Bloodbath and we made out briefly. Then she kind of … ran away when the place closed. I don’t know, it’s blurry, I’d been at my work’s AGM earlier that night so I’d basically embarked on drowning my liver in alcohol. I had her phone number, but the next day I couldn’t quite remember why. I opted to stall. I decided it would be easier to just wait till we casually ran into each other again.
We didn’t run into each other again for a few years, as it turned out. While this was fine in the sense that a future of shopping together for flatpack furniture was never on the cards for us, it’s probably nonetheless a valuable lesson about actually calling the person when you have the chance. Still, it worked out okay. We finally met up again last summer and then maybe a half-dozen times after that, and for a while I was appalled by my own inept conversation skills (memorably, I once blurted “I got my best friend a felt edamame bean badge for her birthday” just to fill a gap in discussion. #173 looked at me kindly and invited me to elaborate. I had nothing to offer). But as it happens, she’s the last person I was in contact with before I ran away to Barcelona last week.
Which is a whole other story of course, and it may or may not get told in this blog, given that I haven’t kissed anyone here and nor do I intend to. So.