Will she, won’t she

"I really want to kiss you..."


The Northerner is an absolute knockout. I meet her outside the bar slightly flustered after trotting from the tube and feel like I’ve been sucker punched in the stomach. Holy shit - it’s my future wife! We head into the bar and are shown to our table. 


“I’ll just get us some drinks,” I blather, before sprinting upstairs and wandering aimlessly around the bar looking for menus and a tissue to mop up my alarmingly runny nose. 


“Are you alright madam?” a solicitous waiter asks.


“Yes, yes I’m fine!” I squeak. Jesus woman, pull yourself together!


Back downstairs I talk nineteen to the dozen before calming down enough to let her get a word in edgeways. She tells me about her job, her childhood in rural Yorkshire and how much she loves animals.    


“Me too!” I cry, even though I had one hamster ten years ago who broke out of his cage before resurfacing three weeks later to screams from my unsuspecting grandmother. Frankly, she could say she enjoys exploring sewage systems and I’d agree that it’s a fascinating hobby. 


We finish our wine and she suggests going for another drink somewhere else. I take her to an underground cocktail bar with low lighting and snuggly velvet sofas. She returns from the bar with martinis, knocking hers back like vodka’s going out of fashion.


“I really want to kiss you...” she says.


Oh well, if you must. 


We kiss; a long, sweet, sticky toffee pudding of a kiss that makes my legs go wobbly. We pull apart and her lips are the blushing crimson of my lipstick. 


“You might want to go to the ladies if you don’t fancy outing yourself to everyone on the night bus,” I say. She giggles and wobbles to the bathroom as I take another bracing swig of my lavender martini.


We say goodnight and make plans to see each other again. She texts the next day saying she can’t wait to see me again and I reply, giddy, with the days that I’m free.


I never hear from her again. 


“She’s mad,” my friends say sympathetically, topping up my wine to the brim. “She’d probably want to live on a farm in the wilds with eight dogs and a sow, it would never work out.” 


They’re right, but I can’t help swearing off Tinder for a week to lick my wounds. She’s the first woman I’ve felt really attracted to – who knows when that will happen again? 



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