"Our eyes met across a dusty dance floor. I'd last seen him over 15 years ago. He had been my first love and our relationship consisted mainly of awkward teenage fumblings in awkward locations. We skirted each other like matador and bull until alcohol and slow music led us to stumble against each other in a clumsy reunion.
"So, we went back to his place — where I discovered he'd grown into a rebel rejecting a conventional bed for a sleeping bag on nylon carpet. We lay there and reminisced about those awkward teenage fumblings until we partook of some very awkward 30-something fumblings.
"He said he'd phone. I knew he never would. Nights spent stalking the phone as a 15-year-old had at least taught me he wasn't the type to phone. But, it didn't matter. I didn't care. This one-night stand had given me closure. My first love was no longer the boy who made my heart race like no other man had, ever since. He was just a man who slept way too close to the floor, surrounded by nylon. Heart vacated, it was now available for new occupier."