I’d planned our wedding before you asked me out on a first date.

I knew it as soon as we locked eyes at that New Year party. Or maybe it was Christmas or your birthday. I honestly couldn’t remember because I had done this too many times with too many guys. But you were special. I knew you were.

You sneakily came to me when I wasn’t looking. My heart would beckon you if it had vocal cords, but you didn’t need its call anyway. Our souls were entangled as if some mad scientists did some weird quantum magic, and it was not the unsexy undead-unalive cat kind. You stealthily swayed next to me, earnestly demanding attention just as a cat would perk its head up for a pet. It was universally known and scientifically sound that being liked by a cat was the highest honor of it all; they only sought pets from the most valuable human. I was that precious to you, wasn’t I? Others’ attention was bread crumb, and mine was a whole scrumptious meal, one spoonful at a time.

And you were saying? Sorry, I couldn’t focus if you didn’t wipe off that grin hanging on your face. You should not be allowed to do that, keeping my heart high-strung while you danced freely on my mind. No, I meant, what you were doing on the dance floor. Obviously, I was commenting on your moves. I hoped you would comment on my moves when my hand left light imprints on your right arm. Those were intentional, just as clear as you crisscrossed through so many uninteresting carcasses whirling about in the meaningless void that was your life until you arrived within my touch.

And my shoulders touched your palms while our cheeks kissed; and your breath was some expensive IPA and mine was yours; and you whispered if you should ask her out —

Oh, I didn’t notice that other unintersting carcass next to me, bobbing up and down to some lukewarm pop that filled up the room an hour ago. I guess, yeah, sure, I wouldn’t, but you do you.

Such a shame we wouldn’t go on our first date, which would be a few pints at Curve Garden after some cut meat at the Little Duck. The wedding would’ve been nice because the real sun would bathe us on the sandy bed of a Cyprus summer instead of teasingly splashing us on the pissy concrete sidewalk of a shitty London Tuesday.

It’d be alright. You’d be invited to my next wedding, probably.