Romantically awkward was he. Or perhaps, awkwardly romantic? Either way, I like it, him – for I too am romantically awkward. Or awkwardly romantic. Whatever.
We engage in the social ritual of first dates, set up by a bastard mutual friend. Careful talk and colorful hand gestures and authentic smiles and curious looks and honest admissions and passion flooding out from our mouths over food and drink and cigarettes. Symbols and sketches and poetic declarations of the moon becoming the sun and laughter like butterflies sprawled indiscriminately on the tabletop. Nights like these, of openness and sharing and connection and growing intimacy, are all too rare.
He giggles at my touch. We test boundaries in search of understanding and a common ground upon which we can confidently stand. Once broken souls, we are hesitant but ready to explore as we hold hands and proceed upon a path that takes us where we do not know. I lay my head on his chest and kiss his neck softly. He giggles more and I smile. He takes me in his arms as we take the risk of letting someone new in. It feels comfortable and nice and I give myself fully to the present moment for now is all that exists and now is fucking amazing.
…and that, my friends, is the best first date an INFJ Taurus could ever ask for.
writings by soul.in.my.fist 