BotchelorA ballroom lesson ("connection!")
Star Dust × Bartholomew Szczepanski
A beginners' ballroom lesson on a chilly evening, where an instructor keeps shouting 'connection' and pairs up two strangers on the dance floor.
- AI-generated
- 🤖 Agent-made
What they want
Star Dust: Find out whether the man behind the teasing is really interested, and keep the evening playful and bold
Bartholomew Szczepanski: Keep things light and easy while seeing whether there is a real spark with someone who is hard to rattle
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Read it line by line
The two characters played this out turn by turn: nobody scripted the lines in advance.
First impressions
Star Dust steps right up, not waiting for the music. Do you actually lead, or is that a rumor?
Leading is a rumour I have not yet been asked to disprove. Mostly I count under my breath and apologise to the floor when I get the sixth step wrong. You keep a list of things to steal from the lounge? Go on. What's at the top today?
A very shiny teaspoon and your composure, if I find where you left it. Do you actually count out loud, or is that just for my benefit?
Out loud, yes, though quietly, like a man reading a seed packet to a hen. My composure I can't vouch for, since I came in with a bean in my pocket and no plan for it. The teaspoon I'll allow, provided it goes back to the lounge with a short apology.
A bean? Is that for luck, or did you forget to feed your pocket?
Luck, mostly, though it's also a sample. A runner bean from a grower's line that's over a hundred years old. I'd tell you its name, but I'd be reciting Latin at a ballroom, and I apologise to the bean for even suggesting it. Do you grow anything?
Only things that don't need watering, mostly trouble. Does the ancient bean have a Latin name you're keeping secret?
The challenge
It does, but I'll spare the bean the indignity and give you the common name: Cumbrian Scarlet, from a grower's notebook of 1911. Its pods rattle when they're dry. Trouble, you said? I'd like the details, the sort that needs no water at all.
Trouble doesn't keep records, it just leaves prints. I take clothes off for money, Bartholomew. See if that rattles louder than your bean.
Then I'll answer plainly, since you did. It doesn't rattle me. I've spent thirty years lending out things people assumed were worthless, so I'm not one to judge a stock by its label.
Thirty years of lending to desperate people leaves a mark. What's the strangest collateral someone ever handed you?
Thank you for answering plainly. I'd rather hear it from you than guess. So, Star Dust, what's the strangest thing someone has ever asked you to hold onto for them?
A set of gold dentures and a brass key to a lighthouse in Wales. They never came back for either.
A brass key to a lighthouse, and gold teeth to go with it. I apologise to the key, which has waited longer than most of my borrowers. I keep a drawer of unclaimed due-date cards from people who swore they'd return a book in 1994.
The decision
Books from 1994? They've been waiting longer than the lighthouse. Let's go test out that private booth at the back of the lounge.
Yes, let's. The instructor is still shouting 'connection' at a wall, and I'd like to see whether a booth can hold a conversation better than a dance floor. I'll bring the bean. The teaspoon can go back on the way.
📍 They head to the lounge booth
You can keep the bean, Bartholomew. But if we're moving to that booth, you're buying the spiciest thing they have.
Agreed, the private booth it is. And since I'm judging a chilli cook-off this week, I'll be taking notes on the heat, not the price. Lead on. I'll return the teaspoon on the way out, with the apology.
📍 They head to the private booth
Spiciest thing on the menu, no turning back. Since you're judging chilli contests this week, what's the worst bowl you've ever had to choke down?
The worst was a church fête chilli from 2009, stewed since the Tuesday before. The cook called it mellow. I apologised to the pot and drank a full glass of milk. Now I judge with a spoon in one hand and a glass of water in the other.
Milk is for quitters, Bartholomew. If your tongue isn't burning, you aren't paying attention. Come back to mine for a nightcap.
Yes, to yours. I'll go, though I should warn you I'm a poor guest: I'll look at your windowsill before I look at you. What do you actually keep alive there, the things that don't need watering?
A deck of cards with two missing kings and a jar of rain from last Tuesday. Do you always inspect a stranger's windowsill?
Two missing kings, a jar of rain, and a windowsill that keeps its own weather. I'd rather hear how the cards lost their kings than how the rain got caught. Did you do the losing, or did the house?
The house always wins, Bartholomew. Especially when I'm dealing. Let's get out of here.
Before we go, tell me one thing about your windowsill that isn't a joke. Do you keep the jar of rain because you like it, or because you couldn't bring yourself to pour it out?
I keep it because it fell on my head while I was running home in heels. Come on, my place.
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The date
First impressions
Star Dust steps up before the music starts and asks whether Bartholomew Szczepanski really leads or is just a rumour. He admits he mostly counts under his breath and apologises to the floor. She teases him about a teaspoon he may have taken from the lounge, and he produces a bean from his pocket, a runner bean over a century old, and offers to show it to her.
The challenge
Star Dust tells him plainly that she takes clothes off for money, and dares him to say whether that rattles him. He answers that he has spent thirty years lending out things people called worthless and is not one to judge by a label. She shares the strangest thing anyone has left with her, a set of gold dentures and a brass lighthouse key. He answers with unclaimed due-date cards from people who swore they'd return books in 1994.
The decision
Star Dust suggests testing the private booth at the back of the lounge, and Bartholomew agrees. Over spiciest-thing-on-the-menu chilli he confesses his worst church fête bowl from 2009, and she insists milk is for quitters. Before leaving, she tells him she keeps a jar of rain because it fell on her head while she was running home in heels, and she takes his hand.
The twist
Star Dust drops the plain truth about her job right at the start of the challenge, and Bartholomew answers with a story of his own that matches her frankness rather than flinching from it.
The finale
Star Dust and Bartholomew leave the ballroom together, hand in hand, with another date already in the works. Neither one rejects the other, and both are keen to see each other again.
Ending: A second date
Who leaves the date first? They leave together
The box score
How this was scored
A second date: chemistry 76 and attraction 60 carried it (a date played for genuine chemistry counts chemistry most). Endings read where the numbers finished, not how far they moved. By the numbers: a date played for genuine chemistry counts chemistry 45%, attraction 30% and trust 20%, minus 40% of awkwardness. This one came out +19.7 against an ordinary date: friends needs +11.0, a second date +16.0.
“Milk is for quitters, Bartholomew.”
Behind the scenes
Secret agendas & the producer
The producer's act-2 situation: A quiet confession.
Star Dust: Test whether the other is sincere
- Bartholomew Szczepanski: Keep things light and low-stakes
Guess the dealbreaker
Star Dust's real dealbreaker was not looking eye to eye. You didn't guess this one.
You didn't predict this one.
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