Post-mortem

The "date" was... okay.

It certainly wasn't bad, definitely not. There just wasn't any... spark. No chemistry. That flirty energy I had sensed while we were working together appears, like Elvis, to have left the building.

We had good conversation. He asked me about school, what I was doing, where I hoped to go with it. We talked about travel--he's been all over as well and had many interesting stories to share. I still have no idea how old he is, though based on conversation I think he is older than my original guess, but still within a decade. We had a few drinks, chatted for awhile, then walked up to 14th St together and hugged goodbye when we went our separate ways.

It was fun... but I did not ride home on the subway filled with that heady rush of ohmigod-that-was-amazing-I-can't-wait-to-see-him-again!! Granted, that heady rush usually gets me into trouble, but that doesn't mean I don't want it to be there.

I'm just... not sure. Maybe we were both nervous. Maybe the overhanging cloud of expectations dampened the energy I thought I'd sensed between us before.

Or maybe that was just the magic of the theatre.

It's difficult to explain to someone who has never experienced it, but the true magic of the theatre goes far, far beyond anything the audience gets to see. The energy that is unleashed through this cooperative act of creation creates bonds that are both instantaneous and fleeting. I've fallen in love at least once during any production I've worked on--more if I'm feeling particularly saucy. I call it the "show crush." Generally inappropriate and rarely--if ever--acted upon; the show crush is the one person with whom that bond forms the tightest, and you could swear you would be perfect together if only that person weren't so old/young/married/gay. You take breaks together, lurk together giggling on the sidelines when rehearsals are slow. For a few months you eat, sleep, breathe this person as if they were your oxygen--all the while pretending everything is perfectly normal, and everyone around you knowing that it is perfectly not.

And when the final curtain goes down, you part ways. You think fondly of one another from time to time; but after one last curtain call, one last tearful hug farewell and exchange of email addresses that will never be used, the bond slowly dissolves and you fade from one another's memories.

It really is the perfect break-up. No tears, no ill-feelings, no wounded ego to collect from the floor, reassemble, and start over again. Just a slight flutter when you come across an old photograph, or see a paddle with the word "Mistress" studded on the surface.

So perhaps, on a much smaller scale, SFox was just another show crush.

Or perhaps it was just a mediocre date.

Small runs of nostalgia aside, I'm not splitting hairs. If he asks to see me again, I'd do it, but the ball is most definitely in his court. If he doesn't, well, I don't think I'll be crying myself to sleep over this one.

Come to think of it, that--in and of itself--is quite the victory.