I met my future wife to be, Ally, in the tiny village of Kleinmond, two hours outside of Cape Town. We were camped on opposite sides of a rusty old fence, but by the final night, the "spark" between us was undeniable—aided, in no small part, by the generous flow of alcohol around the communal braai.
Ally was playful. She spontaneously bit my earlobe, and when I warned her of the "consequences," she promptly did it again. I moved in for the clinch.
Now, I consider myself a very capable kisser. I was fully prepared for Ally to swoon, to be consumed by the moment, and to forget the rest of the world existed. For a few seconds, it seemed to be working perfectly.
Then, without warning, she detached herself from my embrace. She didn't look at me. Instead, she leaned toward her friend sitting a few feet away.
"Colleen," she announced firmly, "I must butt in and disagree with what you’ve been saying. I think that..."
I stood there, mid-clinch, abandoned for a theological or political debate I hadn't even realized was happening. My confidence didn't just take a hit; it did a backflip into the campfire.
Ally eventually blamed the alcohol, and I eventually forgave the rebuttal. We went on to spend 17 wonderful years together, but I made sure to check for nearby debates before every kiss from then on.
