dancing with a stranger

One of my favorite nights in Cape Town is tinged with a feeling of both total fulfillment and a bit of inadequacy. It’s an interesting feeling, and one that became all too familiar towards the end of my trip.

Who’s to say which one of them it was that had upset me first that night, all I remember is that neither of them, the two boys in my love triangle, had decided that night to choose me. And, in the spirit of someone who is fully understanding of the fate she set for herself, I chose this time not to let it ruin my night. We decided to go to one of my favorite bars anyway, and I was content to leave the madness out of sight and continue participating in what had propelled my love triangle together in the first place.

Armed with a vision of myself fed purely by the positive reinforcement of my own confidence, I began by dancing alone. I and everyone I was friends with were used to it by now—when Emily drinks, she likes to dance for hours on end. You know it’s not a bad night when she’s dancing. And there I was, dressed in who knows what, but dancing nonetheless, knowing that one of my love triangle participants was watching for one out of every thirty seconds, and knowing that although he didn’t choose me for reasons I had come to peace with, he would certainly have chosen me in another time, another place.

It wasn’t long before I picked out whom I perceived to be the best dancer in the place (besides me). And, again, armed with an air of confidence, I slid blithely next to him, allowing room for him to see and desire to dance with me.

Of course he did. And when we started to dance together, the two of us perfect strangers, it was, for lack of a non-cliché, electrifying. I couldn’t tell you what any of the music was, but I can tell you that this guy, this young guy who couldn’t have been more than five years apart from me in age, that he and I got along like we had been dance partners for years. He certainly had expectations that I did not, but in the absence of any other responsibilities, I let go and we danced together.

I know how many people were watching us. And I couldn’t say for certain what they were thinking but I can say that in those moments I had the confidence of someone who sees the way people are watching her and who basks in it. I think my dance partner and I, though I never got his name and never saw him again, fell in love a little that night.

When we all left the bar, I chased him down because I had finally felt an urge to kiss him the way he wanted to kiss me. We walked across the street together, my friends halfheartedly trying to flag me down (I had built up a reputation for myself anyway). We shared a not so important, not so long, not so meaningful kiss. It was tinged with a feeling of the night being over anyhow. “Remember my number” I said on pulling away. He didn’t.

I ran across the street and my friend was making herself throw up between the curb and an empty (I think) waiting taxicab. We went home and I wasn’t surprised to hear from one of his friends later on Facebook that he wanted to reach out to me. I never responded