The Date

“It was that Saturday,” I began, twirling my straw amongst the miniature glaciers in my gin and tonic.

“When I was in with my friend?” He seemed to remember the exact day I was talking about.

“Yes. That’s when I noticed you looking at me.”

He gave a wry smile. “I only noticed because I caught you looking at me.”

“Get out,” I scoffed, leaning back. “You liked me first.”

“That’s not how I remember it.”

I sighed and leaned back in, tracing the lines of wood grain on the tabletop. I looked up at him, my index finger drawing circles as I said, “Then maybe we just happened upon each other at the same time.”

I was, quite unbelievably, on a date with the customer from the Wee Cafe that I had been crushing on for almost a solid month. Skinny Caramel Latte and I were sitting face to face, no large counter or coffee machine between us, only a small wooden table and a couple of mixed spirits. I had been ballsy enough one morning to blurt out the question of drinks on Friday, he had been bleary-eyed and coffee-deprived enough to say yes.

The morning that I asked him, my mouth was as dry as the Sahara. I told my boss, the only other person working with me that morning, of my plans to ask this guy out, finally. Almost as if he were taking a theatre cue, in comes Skinny Caramel Latte, leaning against the counter and doing his usual “how are yous” to me. As we talked about the coming week, my boss slyly slipped round the back (which I later learned, was not so sly, as he said that he totally noticed it and then asked if she knew that I was going to ask him out that morning). The two of us were alone now. He asked me about my weekend plans, and as I was fixing the lid to his coffee cup, I said that I had actually been wondering if he fancied going for a drink that week.

“Friday?” I asked, tilting my head, then, only giving him a second’s pause, “any day..?” He laughed. It sounded cool, yeah. I scoured the countertop for a pen and wrote down my number, my hand shaking so much it looked like a Sesame Street attempt at flirting. I hastily scribbled my name under my number, gave it an underline and slid it over the counter next to his coffee. He picked it up and paid for his coffee. After the chat wrapped up, he started to turn for the door. I asked him if he wanted his change or not, holding a fifty pence piece in my hand. He bashfully took the coin and smiled, leaving the cafe. As soon as he was out of sight, I squealed with joy.

That was the first small victory, and even though I knew, I was almost quite completely sure, that this guy liked me, I was expecting to fall at every other hurdle placed in my way. What if I’d given him the wrong number? What if he wasn’t going to text me? What if he picked a really crap bar to go to? What if he was a murderer, or a rapist? What if he was a murdering rapist? What if he was really, really, really boring?

Friday night. I was dressed head to toe in black, a true nod to the Toronto wardrobe. I had done my makeup so impeccably, I felt godlike. Walking downtown, I smirked as I thought, if this all goes horribly wrong tonight, at least I know that I’ve still got an incredible, clever and attractive person to go home with: myself. I arrived at the bar, and all the nerves that had been jangling through my body seemed to ebb when I saw his tall form standing by the door, unaware that I was sidling up to him. He turned as I said a coy hello, we exchanged a one-arm, slightly awkward hug, and went in to order drinks.

I was looking forward to this conversation. At this point, I only knew three things about this guy:

• his real name
• his occupation
• his shameful coffee order

There was everything to learn. This was the beauty of not having the guy on Tinder or Facebook. I had literally nothing to go on. I didn’t even have his birthday to do some sort of pseudo-astrological swotting up on (which… I will admit, I totally do with nearly every guy I’ve made eyes at). And so we started talking. And we started to learn about each other.

His favourite film was Ghostbusters. He was born just after it was released, so that made him… how old? I was terrible at maths. Ah, he was turning thirty-one this year. And how old was I? Guess. A little lower. A little higher? There you are. Favourite film? Favourite song? Okay, top three songs. Can I have a top five instead? Ok, just three. I’lll give you four anyway.

Then we reached a point where the age gap became very apparent. The man did not like Harry Potter. He’d never read the books, he’d seen parts of the film, but had no care whatsoever for the franchise. I could feel my little Harry Potter Heart sinking. Surely he wanted to read the books? No, he knows how the story ends. But what about all the exciting stuff in the middle!?

“I know what happens, though,” he said. I asked him to tell me. “Well, there’s a ginger kid, who’s in love with a really smart girl who can travel back in time — that’s why she’s so smart — and then there’s Voldemort, and everyone hates this guy called Snake, but he actually turns out to be Harry’s guardian because he’s in love with Harry’s dead mum, and then the old guy gets killed, and it turns out that Harry and Voldemort are the same, so Harry can kill Voldemort if he kills himself.”

I couldn’t stop laughing. It was the most horrendous synopsis of the books I’d ever heard. As the night continued, we talked more and every so often a line would pass from either his or my lips that would have both our eyes ignite with some sort of tiny flame. It was interesting: at times I couldn’t really feel a complete attraction to him; at times, the bar seemed empty and open and cold and I wondered why I was even sitting opposite this guy… and then all of a sudden he’d say something that would have me lean in a little closer, feeling my heart skip a beat and my hands would jump to play with the golden chain I wore around my neck.

On a couple of occasions, he told me that he found me a fiery little character. I seemed confident, determined and unafraid to speak my mind. It was fascinating to hear someone observe this about me. I had spent almost a year and a half feeling like a complete failure of a person: meek, mild and modest. Did he know that I was crying my eyes out nearly every day when I first moved back to Aberdeen? Did he know that I was going to therapy to temper my anxiety? He didn’t have to know. He just saw the person I was when I was around him. It excited me to realise that I was all of these things: I was confident, I was fiery, I was determined. How brilliant to understand yourself through another person’s eyes — the things you can’t see for yourself.

The bar was closing. We were the last people left. The bill was split and we started to walk west, back home. He would take me to my door, he said. He would never let a girl walk home alone. I liked that, a lot.

It was dark, but the sky was completely clear: constellations were spinning above our heads. I could see Ursa Major, Andromeda… I talked vaguely about matter, mass and distant planets, gesticulating with my hands, shaping orbs out of thin air and making Jupiters and Saturns in my mind. We walked up, passing by the empty gardens, where the black benches stood and the grass was dark and rich. As we walked through the night, the air teasing us with a hint of summer warmth, but not enough to stop my hands from digging themselves in to my pockets, he recalled the time he and his friend found themselves in that park, getting the life beaten out of them. It had been a night out, a misunderstanding under neon lights and the problem got taken outside, to the darkness of the gardens.

“What’s it like to get beaten up?” I asked, curiously.

For all the exchanges of favourites, like two school children trading cards out of their lunch boxes, for all the facts and figures I could now spout about this guy, I found myself feeling connected to him the most when he talked about the fear that coursed through him in the garden. I could talk to you about music and pop culture and history and politics and books for hours, but if you start telling me about a personal experience like that, I’m hooked. Tell me what it felt like to have knuckle bones strike you in the cheek. Tell me about how it wasn’t the actual sensation of getting the wind knocked out of you, but instead the terror of anticipation that made the experience unbearable. Tell me about the most heart-wrenching part, the look on your mother’s face when you came in through the door, and she saw your fractured face. We could talk about music and pop culture and history… we could. But tell me about moments you felt terrified, or exhilarated, or beautiful, and I will listen with the greatest intent.

We arrived to my front door. The light above the stairs was on. No, I blushed, my mother wasn’t sitting up waiting for me. Well… this was nice, we both agreed. He said that he was surprised I asked him out, he was even a little surprised he’d said yes. Just came out of a long-term relationship a while ago. I understood. We talked a little more outside the door, and then he stepped forward to pull me in.

His arm around my back, I mimicked the action, and found that my face was being pulled into his shoulder. This was a hug, ah. I felt a little deflation in my heart, but I understood. Maybe there wasn’t enough chemistry between us. Maybe that was okay. At least we’d talked for the whole night, at least I knew more about him. He began to pull away, and I was ready to turn to the door when he halted, inches from my face, placed his hand gently upon my jaw and tilted my lips up to his.

I’ve kissed plenty of people. Embarrassing, slobbery teenage kisses. Urgent, heartbreaking kisses in the rain at 5am. Sad kisses at train stations. Comforting pecks to say goodbye. Exciting kisses to say hello. Some more memorable than others, each completely different, each with a different association and feel to it. But this kiss… there was only one word to describe it.

It was dreamy. I felt like I was being lifted up, up, up, on to a cloud. My head was drifting, and it was the kind of kiss that makes you think of flower petals, spring blossoms, strawberries and cream… forgive me, forgive all the cliches I’m offering but they’re the truth. I was in a daze, I was completely lost while he held me. At the last lingering touch, we slowly pulled away, in the sort of lazy way that waves roll back from the beach shore, still running through that last point of contact, our hands connected but then slipping away as we dropped each other from our soft grip.

“I don’t know where that came from,” he half-joked. I knew exactly where it came from. It came from that Saturday afternoon, the instant I first saw him, and he first saw me, happening upon each other at the exact same moment.