He was a bit rough around the edges, but he’d do. You were bored of one-night stands, of being ghosted, of being told how [insert] clever [insert] pretty [insert] funny [insert] one-in-a-million you were. And then being dropped as quickly as the clothes he couldn’t wait to rip off your body.
At least this one turned up on time. He always paid. He always chose decent venues for their dates. He didn’t suggest going back to his place the first time they met. Or the third. Or the fifth. By date number six, you wondered if the two of you would become just good friends. Or maybe he noticed you squinting, scrutinising, checking out his footwear.
You once ran away from a man who assumed moccasins were stylish. And that guy – wearing grey leather uppers – you let him buy you a drink but kept picturing him in that shop, making a definitive choice to buy those shoes.
The latest in this yawning line of potential Mr Rights might not bear any resemblance to the guys you usually go for, but his trainers couldn’t be faulted. And you made it to Date Number Six before you kissed.
Am I ugly as sin? you messaged your friend before you left.
Maybe he’s a virgin, your friend replied, with a trail of laughing emojis.
You didn’t feel any signs of stubble when, finally, your lips touched his. Your tongues circled, and he pressed your body so close, you wanted him to swallow you up whole. Jesus, this was worth waiting for, you thought, and let the kiss continue for as long as it could. You didn’t usually let your guard down in public places, but manners could go take a hike.
Text me when you get home, he whispered.
Alone and on the tube, you remembered your first kiss, aged thirteen, that tangle of open mouths proof you were a woman. It was autumn and you turned crimson when he ignored you at school the next day. You’d never lose control again. Pleasure coursed through your body as you swiped past all those losers. You were glad you paused before you swiped past him.
He worked in the city (they all did).
He was looking for something serious (that’s what they all said).
I’m that diamond who’s forever was his tagline and he had a trusting smile.
My grandparents came from Bangladesh, he told you, laughing when you said you liked his tan. My father came from Tottenham, but he died when I was 4.
As tragedy fluttered over cocktail hour, you liked his trainers even more.
You dressed carefully for date number seven. You clasped your grandmother’s pearl necklace at the back. You thought of her, outwardly upright with a wink in her smile.
You took his hand when he arrived at the subway through the rain. You turned towards him, stood face to face. Not wanting any more, you asked him, very softly, if he’d like to dance.
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