Every time I think of a date, this scene never fails to surface in my mind—
Me, in a long silver gown, raven hair bunned up into an effortless do, letting my enchanting chandelier earrings take centre stage. A man, in a lux tux, placing his hand on the small of my back, guiding me to the window.
The window is dimly-lit., music softly played. The floor is lined with navy velvet carpet with golden baroque prints, majestic pillars wrapped in large crimson satin bows, each uncannily identical to one another, with perfectly symmetrical drapes.
Before us, beyond the panes, lies a limitless expanse of city lights, scintillating, twinkling.
This is the image I conjure since young, under the influence of mass media, specifically Taiwanese dramas (even more specifically, Meteor Garden), I should think.
I have since lost desire for such a scene. Too superficial. No familiarity. No sense of realness. Yet, it still creeps up from time to time when I think of a ‘date‘.
How stereotypical. Funny.