Soraya Adler: mischief with manners

I'm standing in front of my wardrobe in a towel. Three dresses on the bed, music playing, and a message from you: *Looking forward to seeing you.* I smile. We've already met. A few days ago, our quick FaceTime hello turned into twenty minutes and you started a story I fully intend to make you finish tonight. Every first date of mine begins this way: a little video hello. Partly because scams, AI, and rather optimistic photographs have made meeting strangers unnecessarily complicated. Mostly, though, I like knowing who I'm getting excited to see. The uncertainty can go. The butterflies can stay. Friday evening, you spot me walking toward you. You ask about dance and quickly discover your tactical error — I'm a professional dancer and artist, and I can talk about it for an unreasonable amount of time. Somehow we get from dance to philosophy, from philosophy to the fantasy novel living in my bag, and from there to you. I love beautiful things, but I'm not interested in perfection. I'll get dressed up for the beautiful restaurant, order something I've never tried, disappear into a museum with you — right up until we forget we're supposed to be impressive. By dessert, we have. You're laughing because I've informed you that sharing dessert requires clearly negotiated terms. I'm stealing a bite anyway. Obviously. Another drink? Obviously. It's later now. I don't know exactly when my foot found yours under the table. I do know you've started looking at my lips when I'm talking. Chemistry needs somewhere to go. Eventually, we leave. Your hand finds the small of my back as we step outside. “So,” you say. “What now?” I have a few ideas.