Elizabeth was around my age. She had bobbed brunette hair and habitually wore jeans not of the fashionable variety. Her pants were real work jeans. She had blue eyes, gold-framed spectacles and a direct gaze.
When I say we clicked, I mean I clicked. This is obviously not the same thing, but the conceit is that if I feel a rare connection with you, more than anything I want you to feel the same about me.
That is the pleasure and the pain of click – we know that a set of happy emotions are erupting, but how does the other person feel? And it is the nature of click that it happens upon first meeting, which means there is no history enabling the clicker to ask:
So, hotstuff, do you feel as fizzy as me?
It can be enormously frustrating this elevated awareness, the hormone rush, the desire, and the reality is that it might all be in our mind alone. She might just be being polite.
My click didn’t last. Elizabeth and I were only in the same town for a weekend. She was married to a burly farmer, with whom she had three young children, and wasn’t about to indulge a dopey city bloke.
Foolish. Starry-eyed. Illogical. Impossible. It was all of these things, and yet none the less real for being so.