Don’t get me wrong, he was very nice, and actually a lot nicer-looking in the flesh than I’d expected. From what I’d seen of his Facebook pictures, he looked like kind of a meathead. Then again, in the flesh, he didn’t spend quite so much time with his shirt off, flashing his tattoos and posing as if about to commence a boxing match. Swings and roundabouts.
Anyway, we met at a pub on the Northern line on Saturday night. He had a drink waiting for me (Merlot, lovely) and said I looked great. Although I think he was a little gutted that I was taller than him in my heels – ha! Oh come on, the man’s pure muscle, it’s only fair that I have some kind of physical advantage over him.
He had the ‘date jacket’ on, or what he called his ‘unlucky jacket’. As it may well be, because I really wasn’t that into him. Conversation didn’t feel as easy as it has on other dates I've had. Although I hate to use the Pick Up Artist as an example, because what I saw of him was pretty much 80 per cent showmanship, when I went out with him, the conversation didn’t falter once, and it was interesting and funny, and we went off on incredibly geeky tangents, with lots of gesticulating, slapping the table and going ‘YES! Totally!’ .. and we just ‘clicked’...as much as you can when the person opposite you is utterly deceiving you, but you get what I mean, as an example.
The Marine and I didn’t not get along, but the whole night I was very conscious of the conversation being an actual effort, instead of flowing naturally. And at the end of the day, I just didn’t fancy him. It didn’t help that the pub we were in was absolutely packed to the rafters with really quite attractive men – at least I know where my friend and fellow-frog-kisser D and I are going on our next night out!
Then, rather annoyingly, he asked me – and it may be unfair that this bothers me – why it is that I’m single. People ask me that fairly often, and it’s one of my pet hates and one of the things guaranteed to put my back straight up. Not because I’m sensitive about it – on the contrary, six months into being single, I’m really quite enjoying myself! The thing that really irks me about that question is the implication that I don’t have any say in the matter – like there’s no possible way I might actually like being single, and that I’m just waiting for some man – any man – to come along and change my Facebook status to ‘In a relationship’. It seems like such an inane thing to ask me – it’s like asking why my hair is the colour it is, or why I have size 7 feet, or why I’m right-handed.
Who knows, maybe, hypothetically speaking, it’s meant to be flattering, maybe he was genuinely astounded that someone as attractive and intelligent and articulate and kind-hearted and well-dressed, and urbane as me (well, I did say ‘hypothetical’!) couldn’t possibly be single. Surely some man must have come along and snapped me up by now? Because I can’t possibly have any influence over the matter, can I?
Grrr.
Anyway, after three glasses of Merlot for me, and a couple of beers for him, we made our way home. We got the same bus, as we live fairly close to each other. I must say that by this point, there had been no physical contact – hands on backs, legs, holding hands, kissing, at all. And it hadn’t even occurred to me, which is pretty much all I needed to know about how I felt about him, I think. I got off the bus first, thanked him for a lovely evening, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and made my way home. And as I did, I was thinking Well, he’s nice, but thank God I can go home now. It probably didn’t help that my shoes were killing me. As much as I appreciated them for giving me the height advantage, they are ludicrous.
He texted me when I got home, to check I’d got back safely, to thank me for a lovely evening, and he also said he’d like to see me again. As I wrenched the Shoes of Death off my feet, I believe I thought Whatever...let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, and sank gratefully into bed.
He texted me on Sunday, too, just asking how my day had been, and on Monday night, he texted me again, to ask the same thing, and also if I wanted to meet for dinner next week. Now I’m all for giving people a second chance – no one’s really at their relaxed best on a first date – so I said yes. He replied with something, I can’t remember. Then, about half an hour later, I got this:
To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you were that keen on me or not. X
Really? Must we? It’s two days post-date, it’s late on a Monday night, and he wants to go there? That said, he does have a point. I don’t have a thing against him, and I certainly wouldn’t relegate him to Frog status, and I thought he was nice, but I didn’t feel any sparks – compared to the evening with the Frenchman, where I had to excuse myself to the Ladies, merely for the purpose of sending a text to my friend, H, the precise contents of which were, I believe: Oh. My. God.
So really, I suppose this would be a convenient opening to nip this one in the bud. But what to say? - I’m terrible with these things. And while men traditionally seem to have no apparent problem with vanishing on me, I meanwhile would prefer to be a little more gentle with people’s feelings. I can’t very well condemn people for ignoring me if I’m going to behave the same way in turn. So with that in mind, I’m trying to think of a kind but gentle way to respond to that text. Although, seeing as he sent it a day and a half ago, I’m thinking the silence may have already spoken volumes for me.
PS: I posted this at 11:21 am. At 11:25am, my phone buzzed. It was The Marine. Hi, how's your week going? x
While I'm still loathe to resort to fuckwit behaviour, good God man, take a hint!
1 comment:
Oh, you must be kind with people's hearts. But also you must be honest!
If I were you, I'd stop the texting. Call the marine, tell him you enjoyed his company, but didn't feel a spark. You cannot say those things in a text without seeming harsh.
Still, it is amazing he hasn't worked it out for himself. Why do you think he's so needy?
xxx
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