I’m on a first date in Shanghai. It’s just past eleven and we’ve finished our drinks. She’s a Chinese-American girl who runs an art-design-tech startup. She’s intense, super cute, and not at all what I expected. I don’t know what I expected, but she’s better.
We’re under the streetlights, just walking. The night feels electric. The smoggy air is thick with chemistry. We don’t need to talk; we’ve been talking for the last three-and-a-half hours. Instead, we exchange knowing smiles and I take her hand. After a comfortable silence, I start with a question I expect to be returned:
“Can you sing?”
“No?” she responds innocently with a hesitant question. It’s a no that means yes. She thinks that she’s good, even without formal training. She thinks she has the raw talent to be exceptional at anything.
“Sing for me.”
“No way, you sing for me!”
I take an intentional second, musingly, “Only if you insist, beautiful girl.”
Her jaw drops slightly with a surprised smile, “You’re going to sing for me?”
I got what I asked for. I don’t need any more charm, but I’ll lay it on thick. I make a show of preparing myself: clear my throat, roll up my sleeves, adjust my collar, and brush off my shoulder. I give her a wink and a sly grin, and sing her a verse from Daisy Bell.
Daisy, daisy, give me your answer, do.
I’m half crazy, all for the love of you.
It won’t be a stylish marriage; I can’t afford a carriage.
But you’ll look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two.
I brush away the stray hairs covering her face, and with the same movement, gently grasp the nape of her neck. We close eyes and kiss, holding a gaze until she breaks the silence.
“Let’s go back to my place.”
She opens the door to her apartment and her excited dog makes a ruckus. He skids around the hard floor, runs up and pokes his nose at my hands.
“Ohmygod I love your dog! So cute, asdfjboideqnlwcf.”
I kneel down on the floor to say hello. I extend my hand, palm up. The dog sniffs then looks at my face. I scrub under its neck with one hand and itch its back above the tail with the other. He tries to lick my face, so I twist away from him, grimacing. He’s relentless with the licking, so I stop scratching and hug him. He still manages to get at my ear.
“He likes you!”
Her face is flushed. I retract to talking distance in our embrace.
“Not tonight.”
I pause, slowly contemplating.
“There needs to be more buildup; tension. We’re going to go on a dinner date. You’re going to wear a cute dress and heels. We’ll go to some restaurant with over-sized plates, red wine, and a rich dessert. We’ll share some conversation and lots of tense eye contact. We’ll rush home.”
She nuzzles in closely and nibbles at my neck. We whisper about important things in our lives until our eyelids get heavy. Consciousness waning, I have a crazy idea.
“What time do you wake up for work tomorrow morning?”
“7:30am”
“Can you be here February 1st at 1pm? It will be in the middle of Chinese New Year.”
“Uh, yeah, I guess… Why?”
“When I say goodnight, we’re going to go to sleep without a word. I’m going to wake up before you tomorrow morning to leave. Two days later, I fly to Dublin. In two months, February 1st, I fly back to Shanghai. At around 1pm, I will arrive from my flight at your door. I will knock. You will have a choice to make. Let’s suppose you don’t answer the door. I won’t be crushed. I’ll be happy - I wouldn’t have done anything differently. I will go to a hotel, find a place to live, and start setting up life here. We may see each other again, but only as friends or acquaintances. If you open the door, invite me and my luggage in - no pretences or expectations - we’ll go from there. I know what I want. I’m decisive and non-impulsive. I want an equal who is willing to be crazy about me. Spending these hours together is all either of us needs to make a gut decision. Any more time together won’t change anything. Don’t forget, February 1st at 1pm. Tonight was perfect. Goodnight.”
We embrace and fall asleep. I wake up at 7am and leave without a sound. Two days later, I fly to Dublin. Now here I am…
 |
| I see the moon and the moon sees me... |
Except that’s not exactly what really happened. That’s much too scripted and excessively romantic. Here’s what really happened:
“…But you’ll look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two.”
I brush away the stray hairs covering her face, and with the same movement, gently grasp the nape of her neck. We close eyes and kiss, holding a gaze until she breaks the silence.
“You should bring me back to your place.”
She considers it, conflicted, “I can’t. I have work early tomorrow. I should go home now.”
I’m disappointed and it’s hard not to let it show. Still, I feel compelled to explore the script. “It’s all good. Before you go, though, this is crazy, but I want to show you something I wrote.”
I show her the above story. She reads. A smile spreads across her face.
“Let’s go back to my place.”
 |
| People's Square. |
That didn’t happen either.
I don’t know what’s going to happen. I know I’ll probably like her and she’ll probably like me. After a few hours we’ll be vibing. There will be a right moment, maybe tension from silent eye contact or a break from deep conversation. We’ll have an intimate focus on each other and I could lean in to kiss her. I just might, or I might not, but there’s a different risk I’ll take, leaving me more exposed.
“I have to show you something I wrote. Sometimes I get an idea and I have to express it. It dominates my thoughts and I can’t do anything else - sleep, work, or concentrate - until it’s out of my head and written. I was inspired by something you wrote - about how you can meet someone in New York and move in with them two weeks later. Just read this the whole way through and don’t say anything ‘till you’re done.”
I’ll hand her this story and she’ll read it, all the way to now and further. She will… I don’t know what her reaction is going to be, I can’t predict such a specific future. I don’t know what she’s going to do, but it won’t matter to me. Enacting this magically scripted reality, this undefined performance art, will have been so strangely fulfilling…
She’ll finish and I’ll calmly proposition with an implied promise to stay on script,
“Let’s go back to your place.”