Macy Kirk
After my engagement ended, I wasn't interested in men. I even eyed Bongie, my grandparents' tomcat, with suspicion.
So, it was with eye-popping pleasure that I ran into Mr Right Now after Mr Right turned out to be the pain no paracetamol can cure. Tall, spoke a few languages, no beer belly and he could dance well.
Having made my inquiries (eligible, thirtysomething with a six-pack stomach), I made my moves and the pre-dating game was on after two years of celibacy. What a sublime little tango it was.
Air-kissing at the cocktail circuit but his lips actually touched my cheek, meeting at parties and making sure my glass was always topped, asking the waiter to take care of his 'special friend'. The lingering handshakes with that subtle extra squeeze. We even slow-danced to Shania Twain.
We planned to meet for coffee, but he had to reschedule as a business associate postponed a meeting. He was to escort me to a champagne bash, but his dad suddenly took ill. I asked him to sit with me at a fashion show but on the day, all I got was a voicemail.
