Maybe he could be the one

Lets snog on the street

At 4pm my phone vibrates, still on for later? I wait an ample twenty minutes before replying and say yes, but I might be a little late. I am not busy and have no genuine reason not to be on time. I will continue to lie on the sofa, flicking through New York Times games on my phone for another hour before I even begin to get ready. But it’s customary for women to arrive late to a date. He is 35, and I expect he already knows I will be late. I merely confirm that I am ready to abide by the rules of hetero-predictability for the evening.

In the shower, I inspect every inch of my body. I am a scientist, and my skin is the petri dish under my microscope. I slather, scrub, shave, and then pat dry. I brush, trim, pluck, tweeze, and hide all the cosmetic flaws I’ve rediscovered. Before putting on my makeup, I head to the kitchen to pour myself a large glass of Picpoul. It’s cold, and it slides down the back of my throat with intent, ready to dilute the anxiety lurking at my edges and loosen my morals. No, I am not having sex on the first date. No matter what. Call it an experiment, this time I’ll wait. Fuck I could do with a decent shag, though. I’ll reassess later.

Smooth, dot, blend, buff, dust, flick. I pucker up and finish with lipstick. Red is too seductive. Subtlety is key. I douse my lips in Black Honey, and my eye contact with myself as I smack my lips and pout. I’m not sure what to wear. The alchemy of the right outfit requires effort that looks minimal yet accentuates whatever assets I bring to the table, like cattle sent to market. I settle on low-waist tailored black trousers and a leopard print top that’s fitted and tight across my chest. I don’t wear a bra. This balance I have cultivated, demure seduction, would be ruined by a jumper, so I decide against it and hope the bar is toasty inside.

Credit: Adobe | By zoommer

I beg my flatmate to come outside for a cigarette. Please! I whine, impetuously. It’s cold! She snaps back. She acquiesces, throwing a cold over her dressing gown. She doesn’t want one, so she just watches me. I am a one-woman show, and this is immersive theatre with an audience of one. Are you excited? She asks. I take a long drag. Yeah, I mean, I think so. The cigarette makes me woozy, and I realise I should probably eat something before I leave. Back inside, I gobble up a packet of Hula Hoops and wash them down with a final large swig of wine.
I make a checklist of the contents of my bag. Lipstick, lip balm, hair brush, earphones, chewing gum, perfume, cigarettes, two lighters, keys, driving licence, scrunchie, a sheet of propranolol, paracetamol, spare contact lenses, a pen, three plasters, and a mini umbrella. Off into the night I go.

It’s a thirty-five-minute walk to the bar he chose. The bus would take even longer, so instead I lime and park a few streets away. I wanted the least amount of thinking time. Otherwise, my nose would start to run from the chill, and I’d ruminate over things that might go wrong. We’ve hardly spoken since arranging the date and exchanging numbers on Hinge five days ago. I reassure myself it’s a good thing. There will be more for us to speak about in person. What if he doesn’t fancy me? What if he’s not funny? Or his voice is really high-pitched? What if he smells bad? Or wears BoohooMan? Or slaps his thigh when he laughs?

I round the corner, reapply my lipstick and take a big deep breath before stepping inside. He’s sat at a table in the back right corner. I see him before he sees me. He’s fit. Really fit. There’s a flutter in my stomach that travels down between my thighs. My mouth dries up, and I try to swallow. I’ve forgotten how to speak, but I can’t go back now. My body is moving closer to him, he is gravity, and I cannot resist, a powerless little magnet walking towards my fate.