between the moon and new york city

After over six years-- more than twenty percent of my life-- in a single committed relationship, I have reentered the dating world. Let the record show that I am spectacularly bad at it. Dating is rife with puzzles, and trap doors, and catch-22's. It's an emotional minefield. Heart-driven and full of a deep idealism that should rightfully have waned long ago, I live and love in a world of romantic possibilities. But, lately, prospects have begun to look a lot less like possibilities and a lot more like giant question marks.

I won't bore you with my catalog of bad dates and worse conversations. Suffice it to say, it's rare to find someone to connect with. And, when you do-- when you feel the first flutters of what might be butterflies, the first hopeful inklings that you may have found something, even if you can't discern what it is yet-- it's more than a little intoxicating. And terrifying.

When I met him, I figured I was heading into another bad first date-- typical, in my experience, of dates originating from a dating website. I found myself pleasantly surprised. He was interesting. He had clever things to say, and made me laugh, and held open doors. He treated me like a proper lady-- completely atypical of dates born online. When he asked me out on a "real" first date, I smiled. And for a couple of weeks, things were very sweet, though they rushed by. It was like watching the world from a runaway train. The flutters were butterflies, I thought to myself. There were inklings of something.

One afternoon, we took a trip into the city to walk around and sing karaoke with his friends. Too much, too fast, I knew. Meeting the friends. Am I ready for this? Are we ready? Are we even... we? But, in the moment, even against all rationalization, I knew what I wanted. And so we watched the world we knew rush behind us through windows on a train, and ran away. For a few hours.

Now, karaoke is a lot of fun, but at least a little alcohol is necessary if I have any intention of getting up in front of a group of strangers to sing Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance with Somebody". There is simply no other way that is going to happen. So I imbibed, and so did he.

Things were said in drunken haste.

Too much, too soon.

All gas. No brakes.

Things haven't been the same since, and I couldn't begin to tell you where anything stands. That's the danger of the runaway train; it meets a rough patch of tracks, and completely derails. It remains to be seen what, if anything, will survive what appears to be twisted wreckage. A small part of me remains hopeful-- if for no other reason than to know, at the very least, if it was ever really something, after all.