He swept me off my feet. Literally.

“Wanna do Contact Improv?” Joe had called out to me above the noise of the party. And there I was, hanging upside down while he clenched both my ankles. My hair draped to the sides of my grinning face. Then I slithered under him, and he rolled on top of me, soaring above my knees. Damp with sweat in the middle of a dimly lit living room in the middle of the Mission in San Francisco, I curled myself around him and climbed on his thighs. Then we collapsed on the couch.

The smell of sugar wafted down from a nearby bakery, and we ran out in the rain — down the steps, our feet clamoring down the pavement. Through the iron bars, the bakers handed us glazed crisps that melted in our mouths.

“How can I see you again? What’s your phone number?” Joe asked me before a firm, warm hug goodbye.

I left the city with the sweetness and sweat oozing to my brain. I was drunk with womanly power as I crashed into bed.

The next morning I woke up feeling frisky. I went for a run. What was that??? Last night! I giggled to myself. Wow, I said to myself, do you realize? Maybe this is what attraction is — I inhaled and ran harder — maybe this is what chemistry is — I inhaled more, ran faster — maybe I could love him — I held my breath, charged forward, dizzy with anticipation . . .

He never called me.

A w h o l e y e a r p a s s e d.

. . .

I had dreams of bodies in space, tumbling to the floor and leaping across air. I tried to chase this dream in Europe. I did dance workshops in London. I followed a dance company in Paris. I wandered alone. I came home with just one fantasy left. Whenever I couldn’t fall asleep, I’d lull myself into the dimly lit apartment, hurdle back on him, clutch him between my knees and kiss him while laughing. Well, I’m not embarrassed. This was safe. I’d never see him again.

Until . . . last Friday night, Joe stood at the corner of Valencia and 16th, pulling a sweater over his bearded face. Then he disappeared.

I sent him a text. He texted back! We had a date to meet!

That night I couldn’t allow myself the usual lullaby. Instead, half of my brain did flips. The other half just stood on the sidelines, like an annoyed neighbor with his hands on his hips calling out: “What the hell is going on? What’s with all the racket?”

I walked into the coffee shop. A face emerged from the clump of people. His face. Joe tossed his feathery blonde hair and it parted at the side. A messenger bag strapped across his chest, he opened himself toward me. Oh, okay — a hug.

All the tables were taken so we sat Indian-style by the mauve wall. So, what did you do for a year? He quit his job. He went for a bike ride across the country. I slid over next to him against the wall. I poured him some of my tea to help him get at the milk foam at the bottom of his cup.

Eventually we left the coffee shop and went to wander the streets.

“I realize I don’t know you at all,” Joe said. He nudged me to rescue me from stepping in a pile of poop. My elbow brushed against his elbow. I looked at his face as he walked. I wanted to reach over and graze my finger over the flaxen grizzles on his cheekbone.

“Do you think I’ve changed?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “The way you talk is different than I remembered.”

“Do you think I’m interesting?” he asked.

“No,” I joked. He did not laugh. “Yes. Yes I do!” I sputtered.

Joe led me into a Mexican cantina with yellow walls. He got us both cups of water. He sat sideways, leaning against the wall. He nervously poured spicy sauce over his burrito, took a bite and then coughed down water.

Then he turned to face me. He told me he broke up with his last girlfriend when he realized that she was just “not interesting.”

“How was she not interesting?”

“You know when a person just looks back at you blankly,” he said.

My chin on my hands, I smiled and opened my eyes right into the slits of his eyes.

“Not looking back lovingly,” he clarified, “Just looking back at you — “

“ — as if they don’t care, “ we both chimed in unison.

. . .

The streets were even darker now. We talked dreams, goals, and childhood . . . until we ambled along through silence.

“Well, here we are at the BART station,” Joe stopped and turned to me.

I shuffled to a halt.

“Well,” I waited. He stared back.

“I guess I’ll see you in a year,” I said, half-joking.

He bent over to his side as if he was going to barf. Instead he let out a loud laugh.

“Well, you’re hard to get in touch with,” I said, feeling naked.

“I don’t answer my phone,” Joe said.

“Why?” I stammered.

“I just don’t,” he said. Joe lifted his eyebrows, which then dragged up his eyelids, as he kept his gaze at me and blinked, as if to say, “I’m sorry. Life’s tough.”

I smiled feverishly. I searched his frozen face for answers.

Then, like he had done at the beginning, he opened his chest for a final goodbye.

On my tiptoes, I wrapped my arms around his neck. I buried my face into his jacket. His arms immediately recoiled. He was slimy under me. I spun around. I was alone in the dark city. The next train would not come for another hour. I squinted, my contacts slipping out of my tired eyes. I hugged my arms tightly into my chest, and I ran to the train station.