Speaking French again

Time continues to pass, and little by little, I find myself thinking of S less and less. But there are still moments when he comes into my head, when I see someone who resembles him or hear a song that evokes memories of him. This past week, he's been with me almost constantly. I'm not entirely sure why, but I find myself dreaming of him, and then, during those conscious day-time hours, I try to force myself to forget.
I've been running around frantically, trying to keep my mind occupied. I find that I still cannot quite bear the thought of him.
This week, in an effort to have no free time, I decided to give the Alliance Française a try. I had worked my day job, then worked 4 hours at my night job, and then, met this French conversation group at a restaurant on Thursday.  I felt hesitant, unsure of what to think of the upcoming French speaking experience. French is a language that filled my life during the S years. I used to read hours and hours to him, and he would correct my pronounciation. We read through Little Women, through the book of Psalms, and on occasion, Pierre Belmar's real French crime books.
I have lost S, but I prefer not to lose my grasp of the language, so this January, I (you guessed it!) made the resolution to meet with the Alliance Française occasionally and read 4 books in French.
So, Thursday...
I arrived, and to my surprise, met the most interesting people.
There was H, a French-Italian man who had lived in France nearly his entire life, rubbed shoulders with Mitt Romney while Romney was working in France, befriended the great French actor, Gérard Dépardieu, when he was making a scene in a hotel in France, enraged that no one had recognized him.
There was E, a French girl who met her American husband while they both worked in Vietnam, and then, moved with him to the States, and currently works at an International School.
There were the Russians with their perfect American accents and interesting French phrases.
I was so relieved to be speaking French again, to see that I hadn't entirely lost my grasp of the language.
At the end of the night, one of the Russians, appropriately named Sasha, came to sit by me, and he asked all sorts of questions about my life and past and French schooling. He was so comfortable to talk to. We're the same age, in the same general stage of life. I enjoyed him. He was engaging, fun. When I got up to leave, he stood too, and he opened the contacts on his phone and had pressed "Add Contact." I watched all this with a sense of alarm, and I said a quick goodbye (too loudly, too clipped), and I left. I told my friends about the experience later, and they berated me. As they often do, one said, "You'll have to date again sometime. Why not now?"
Why not now?
I still have a strange sense that, in dating someone else, I'd be cheating on S. My heart is still strangely tied to his.
But then, I wonder if this would be different if I met someone I actually really, truly cared about. Someone who was genuinely an option.
I've told myself he has to be at least 27, has to be American (not to be racist, but the international route burned me), he has to be a Christian, and has to have had at least one girlfriend (I will not be the dating experiment.)
I hate thinking about dating again. It isn't comfortable.
But one day, I'll have to do it. I hope I'll meet someone someday that will make me want to date again.