Third Time Lucky

J and I are complete opposites so we are constantly venturing out of our own reassuring comfort zones to meet the other more than half way.

I pulled him to the local Fruit Music Plaza for a mind-blowing night of KTV and dancing while he slowly warmed up his side to side shuffles with Katy Perry favorites. He, the high school swim team star, invited me, who frequented the handicap lap lane, to early morning swimming. I often joked about 5 languages of love as a gentle (or pouty) reminder that I needed my words of affirmation for the day, when he would rather take out my trash to show affection.  And when I casually interlinked my fingers with his in the Shanghai metro, he shifted uncomfortably and saved his "I don't believe in PDA" speech for the privacy of a dark cab.

While we grabbed Uighur food with our work friends the other day, in the middle of my 5 love languages conversation with a colleauge who was conteplating divorce, J cleared his throat. A little too loudly.

He held both hands out, palms down, and with a conspiratory smirk, he announced that he had a secret. In a smooth move, he put his hand on the back of my neck, and pulled me in for a kiss.

He missed.

The table went wild. Amid cries of "I knew it!" and "So you're not gay!?" J tried again.

And missed again.

Even my thick skin was not hiding the red that crept up my cheeks. So the third time, I tried to ignore the flashing cameras and the rolling videos that would probably be uploaded to the company QQ group, and held still.

J, the boy known for not dating in the Flagship program, hated hand holding in public, and avoided me when he first moved here because I was a girl, beat me at the PDA game.

Check mate.

Confession: I've never read the 5 Languages of Love