After last Sunday's heady date with "M", our kiss played on my mind. (Several kisses, actually, in the end, executed on Waterloo Bridge as I let bus after bus I needed whizz by because, well, I was busy.)
We exchanged the requisite follow-up messages: "Home safe. I had a lovely night, thank you." "Me too, I look forward to next time…" etc. - and then? Then I panicked.
I panicked in the way I always do after a (good) first date. Wondered why he hadn't texted me yet that day/if he was secretly married/if I'd imagined it/if I just wanted it to be a match/if he'd gone out with me as the loser of some weird bet and was now laughing hysterically, disbelieving that I actually fell for his heavy eye-contact and the whole 'let-me-pay-the-check' charm.
This is why I pair up first dates. Always have two first dates scheduled, sometimes three. It gives my brain something to do that isn't obsessing over one man. I simply obsess over another man. I don't sleep with multiple people because that doesn't seem fair, but I do date like I cook: I have one pot on the back burner, one simmering, and one on the boil, as my focus. I turn the gas down or up, as appropriate.
I made him wait thirty-five minutes before I showed up - but when I finally pecked his cheek hello and his eyes met mine, I wished I hadn't kept him waiting.
When The Yorkshireman interrupted my weekly pop choir rehearsal (not a straight man to be met there, I'm afraid) by springing up on Bumble, it only took by the time I'd gotten home that evening to agree to a first date on Saturday. "I'll come to you," he said, and I named the candlelit pub on my corner.
He seemed fun and full of banter, and accomplished in a way that is very hot to me. Think Oxbridge education, suit-wearing law job, and a list of extracurricular activities that include running a side business for fun, singing opera, and making pies. I was into it.
And then, nothing. Normally a guy at least checks in to say, "see you tonight" or similar as date day looms around. The Yorkshireman was silent. I'd all but written him off in favour of a night in with Luke Cage on Netflix when at 7pm his name lit up my screen. "Done with my hockey match – see you at 9?"
My instinct was to be flexible. Light. Amenable. Aren't so many of us always just trying to be liked? Isn't that called 'making the effort'? But I didn't do that. Because my eggs are in several baskets I felt ballsy and in charge enough to say: "Let's call off tonight. I'm by no means a spoiled, high-maintenance princess, but I do expect a level of planning and excitement and general communication around dating - especially a first date. No hard feelings."
I expected him to slink off, to disappear, to maybe send a 'suit yourself' text back. But he didn't. He apologized. Profusely. Said he was still keen. Could he take me out Monday? He'd do it properly, he said. I conceded.
Monday came around I cancelled (with appropriate amounts of notice). I know mother always said not to play with my food but I couldn't help it - having a certain upper hand was new for me. "Friday then," he said. "Friday." Friday arrived and I made him wait thirty-five minutes before I showed up - but when I finally pecked his cheek hello and his eyes met mine, I wished I hadn't kept him waiting.
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