You meet them through a common friend. You hit it off. They’re just like you; passionate, experimental, and full-of-life. You can see they like you too.
Could this be it? You look at each other and exchange we-have-finally-found-that-couple-we-were-looking-for looks.
They seem enamored enough now. Why don’t you guys come over for dinner next weekend?
You know what that means. They will spend the night at your place. Ahem.
A week later, drinks and light snacks, some light banter bordering on flirtation. Exactly as you had hoped. After a while, you’re getting bored of the endless conversation. You want to talk about that now. You hate waiting and want to get right to the point, but his eyes reprimand you. Stop being impatient or you’ll scare them away.
You let your mind wander. You know you will end up writing about them one day, no matter how this goes. No names, though. You decide you want to call them the muskill man and his petite wife.
More wine? Yes, why not!
Okay, they look drunk enough now. Nothing ventured nothing gained, you remind him.
You cross your fingers. He asks. They agree.
An hour later, all of you are lying exhausted on the floor in a mangled heap. Can’t tell whose head is between whose legs.
Twister is one hell of a game!