First encounter

You stepped into my consciousness somewhere in January. All of a sudden, you were there. And I turned to your bubbly corner of the chat more often, looking for laughs, sharing a giggle here and there and discovering an affinity.

By February we had become inseparable. Increasingly, we spent more and more time in private chat, detecting that we had much more in common than we thought.

In March, you sent me your first real letter, written with a fountain pen, no less. A whole book arrived in my mailbox, with that first photo of a tiny blonde, with red lipstick and Doc Martens. I wondered what it would feel like to hear you talk as I read through your missive and discovered that you were a mermaid at heart.

Sometime during that month I managed to draft my own letter and so I started out in search of the perfect hand-crafted book for my paper lover. I searched high and low for my Mont Blanc fountain pen and growled in frustration when the nib got stuck in the paper. I took a photo of myself in the days where you had to wait for a photo to be developed and debated on whether I would send it or not.

Then I discovered that the cyber cafe, where I was spending my nights by then, had a webcam. I sent you a photo on the webcam and bought my first telephone card in April. I held my breath as I dialled your number and exhaled when I heard your voice. Oh, the sweet rush of blood to my face as I blushed in front of the invisible object of my affection. I craved to hear more.

One day, as I walked out of the office where I worked, I realised that airline tickets were going cheap. Especially to your side of google earth. So, during one of our nightly conversations, I worked up the gumption to suggest that I might pay you a visit. Silence. And a tentative yes. Next day I was waiting in front of the travel agent’s door.

By May, I was nauseous. And living la vida loca. Dancing on tables. Sleeping around. Thriving on a diet of Lagavulin. The night before I left, I slept with a woman who had been chasing me for seven months. I fell down the stairs and sprained my ankle. The taxi driver ended up having to open the windows because I reeked of alcohol. I remember the long, long walk from terminal to terminal in Schiphol. The KLM crew kindly provided me with an ice pack and lots of water.

I made it through immigration in spite of the alcohol content of my breath. I limped to the baggage hall and struggled past the glass door in arrivals. You jumped right at me and said hello, and I growled ‘get me out of here’ right back at you. I thought your lipstick was too bright.

I crashed on your couch for three days – after huffily noting that there was only one bed but three swimming pools (!) at your compound. You brought me a flower that resembled a frangipani. For all of those days, we danced around one another wearily, as you proceeded to dismantle my defences one by one. On the third day, you unwittingly bought me my favourite wine and did your best Kate Hepburn imitation. It was the sexiest thing I had ever heard and I knew then and there that there was no way back. My first encounter was my last. My new life had started.