Saturday, August 24th 2002
He’s mine. He doesn’t know it yet.
I place my hands on his chest while staring intently into his eyes; he doesn’t pull away, as if I have challenged him.
The tight crowd squeezes in around us, this hides the fact that I have just walked up and pushed myself against this random man. Uninhibited, without any doubt, I lock eyes with him.
He’s doing his best to assess who, and what I’m doing. Only moments before I entered the bar, only to negotiate through the congested crowd, heading directly for him. All social rules and appropriate conduct melted away from my sincere and hungry expression. He is looking deep into my eyes, trying to make sense of this senseless event, and as he thinks his lips curl up at the corners “Was she on drugs?” “Do I know her?” startled and intrigued he tries to reason “Has she mistaken me for someone else”? I’m not on drugs. He doesn’t know me. I don’t think he is someone else. It doesn’t matter.
It’s him. I’ve never had a reaction to anyone like this before. Shy, awkward, and unpopular, this is not my standard behavior.
Under the pressure he cracks “Hi”. I answer sort of trance-like “Hi”. He tries again, almost laughing “I’m Ansell”. “Ansell, I’m Liz”.
What hold could this stranger have on me to persuade me to deviate from myself? Perhaps it is the soft caress of night which I have missed so dearly, or the threat of time closing in on me, desperate to take all that I can, before it’s gone.
He works on the river, he buys me a beer, and I can’t stop smiling.