I spent yesterday in a froth of anxiety and indecision (as opposed to my usual fug of misery and despair) over the approaching date. I changed my mind about going every ten minutes and crashed and burned horribly during my weekly meeting with my boss. I told him I had a date after dropping my notes and losing my third set of blueprints. He took a step back, aghast. 'A date? Already?' His voice was slightly shrill. 'Yes, a date, already', after a mere one hundred and ninety six days of being alone, a period of time which seems both interminably long and barely the length of a heartbeat. 'Are you, you know, ready?' I paused for a while, twisting my wedding ring and fiddling with my blueprints. 'No, no, of course I'm not ready. But I don't think I'll ever be ready unless I start somewhere.' He looked rather taken aback at that, but then it is perhaps the most I've ever told him about myself. Frankly, it came as something of a revelation to myself as well. 'Well, yes, you're probably right. I can't imagine starting over meself. Don't know if any woman would want me! Of course, you've got double the pool haven't you?' Thankfully, at that point, I managed to re-shuffle my notes into the correct order and weigh down my blueprints so we could return to things that did not make me cringe.
I do not have 'double the pool' I currently have a pool containing one woman, who I can no longer have, and a whole array of other people who I appreciate like I appreciate a work of art; completely asexually. But I agreed to a date, and dithered for so long that it was too late to cancel. So instead, I dithered over dressing, forgot my oyster card, spilled lighter fluid all over my hands and zippo, lost everything I required to get out of the house, and eventually arrived thirty five minutes late. My date was waiting, patiently, nursing a glass of wine and flirting with the barman. Apart from an awkward moment where he estimated my age as a full decade older than I actually am, everything was positively delightful. Charming, witty, a nice line in dry black humour, and a lasciviously throaty laugh. I would rather have had a dreadful time, I felt guilty. I still feel guilty. I took my wedding ring off, naturally, not quite able to leave it at home, so instead it burned a hole in my chest, hanging from the leather cord I carried her engagement ring on for so many months.
It ended early, thankfully, as things wound down I was increasingly cracking up under the weight of eating in public, being my most charming self, and not mentioning anything tragic. So we milled awkwardly outside, my date waiting for a cab and myself waiting for a cab to whisk him off. We dawdled, I smoked, and was surprised with an invitation to a collection he is curating in a few weeks. Another date. An invitation to a second date, made on the first. I mumbled, stuttered, dropped my cigarette, bent to pick it up, stumbled, and was hauled up slightly too close to him with his hand on my arm. He hung on a little too long, I apologised, and laughed at my own bumbling ineptitude. We stood like that until a cab showed up, I kissed him on the cheek, pre-emptive in case he went for the lips.
It was early, so I went to the cinema, alone. Harry Potter, again, and sat in the dark and cried, quietly.
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