It's loud in this room, which makes sense, because there are a lot of people here. It smells like beer and cologne and hair products and perfume.
The tables in the taproom are small and the music is just loud enough to let us talk without having to shout. I am number 8.
The bell rings and a tall man with dark hair and glasses sits in front of me. We exchange our names and a couple of details about ourselves. It's a tricky balance between saying enough about yourself to seem interesting, and not saying too much in case you never meet the person again. Or he turns out to be weird, intrusive, tries to find you after this night even if you don't match with him, etc. You know. Men. Maybe women do it too, but they aren't my target market.
This guy seems okay, but we aren't really finding much to say to each other. I can see you out of the corner of my eye. You keep glancing my way and it's throwing me off my chat game, to be honest. I can be charming as hell when I want to be, and can keep the conversation going easily when I'm on. But I'm distracted by you. You're wearing a plain black t-shirt and jeans, and there's an ease about you. Our eyes meet briefly and hold for a minute. A fluttery feeling begins in my chest.
The bell rings and it's time for tall-dark-and-glasses to move to the next table. The blonde at that table is excited to greet him and they begin talking easily.
I turn my attention to the man who sits in front of me now. I can sense that you're closer but I'm working hard not to look at you, to listen to the man in front of me and look at him while he's talking.
"What beer are you drinking?" he asks, and I have to look at the chalkboard menu to recall the name. It's some kind of rice beer, chosen because I asked the bartender for the one that's closest to a lager. When he finished judging me, he poured me a pint of this.
"Do you like it?" the man in front of me asks. I've already forgotten his name so I have to glance at his tag for his number.
"It's okay," I say, and take a sip.
"I'm drinking the IPA. It's got an IBU of 60 and it's amazing," he says, and that sentence tells me both a lot about him, and nothing at all.
He goes on to tell me about his favourite breweries in the area, the kinds of beer they brew and which ones he has tried. I try to listen to him, but the problem is that I can hear your voice above the din. It's deep and a little gravelly and it tickles my ear in a way that I can feel low in my belly. I shift in my chair.
I tune back into number 15 in front of me.
"And I have found that, if you get the right type of hops..."
"One minute left!" the organizer calls out. Number 15 looks startled.
"Boy, that time went quickly," he says and before I can stop myself, I reply.
"And shockingly, you still know nothing about me."
Number 15 looks a bit taken aback. He takes a long drink of his beer and looks at the table.
I haven't meant to be rude, but there it is. He did not ask me a single question. I wish this last minute would be over and the bell would ring so he could get up and ask the blonde about her beer preferences.
He musters a smile and picks up his pencil and match sheet, readying himself to move on. I smile back and tell him I've enjoyed learning about breweries in the area and that I hope he has a good time at this event. I try to sound sincere about it. He's probably nervous, and I get that. It's not his fault I don't care about beer. Then, mercifully, the bell rings.
You sit in front of me.
"Hi," you say, and smile. You've got a bit of grey in your beard and your front teeth overlap slightly, and it's hard to look away from your mouth.
"Hi," I say. I smile back, and then notice your eyes.
They are a shade of brown with a little bit of green near the pupil. You have beautiful long eyelashes. And you're looking only at me.
Neither of us say anything else for a minute, and then you smile again. You tell me your name. I tell you mine. We smile.
I reach for my pencil and brush your hand as it rests on the table. It's not electricity that travels through me so much as a wave of heat. I feel it in my chest and neck and my cheeks.
"One minute!" the organizer calls.
"Should we...talk?" I ask. You shake your head.
"There will be time for talking," you say, and touch my hand, brushing my fingers with a long stroke of your fingertips. I almost swoon. This 5 minutes has made this entire night worth it: worth the price of the ticket, and the careful attention to makeup, the thought that went into my outfit, the nerves I had to settle before walking in, the dread that this would be like every other time.
The bell rings and you get up and move to the blonde on my left. You immediately begin to chat with her, laughing and smiling, and I wonder if I've just blacked out for a minute and imagined the energy between us.
The man who sits in front of me is shorter and balding and seems perfectly nice. He's friendly and actually pretty funny. I have a tough time paying attention to him, however, because I am still very aware of you.
The blonde is loving whatever you're saying to her. She is laughing and tossing her hair and already writing your number down on her match sheet.
I tune back in to the guy in front of me. I look at his name tag - 18 - and realize I've lost track of what he's talking about, so I laugh when he laughs. He's chatted at me past the 1 minute call, and I just need to hang on until this 5 minute date is over.
The bell rings, and the organizer announces a 15 minute break. She suggests we talk to anyone we find interesting, grab another beer, or just take some quiet time to fill out our match sheets. All around me, people quietly pick up their pencils to make notes, avoiding eye contact with anyone around them. I see you looking down at your match sheet. I head for the bathroom.
