He laughs loudly again. I should be kinder about him to be fair. He may be a man, and I am pretty much certain that they’re all awful and deserve to be punished for existing, but he didn’t lean over the counter and help himself just now. He read my April vibes, and didn’t kiss Gretel. Credit where credit is due. Though so many of them seem nice at first …
We reach the steps that will take me down to the Tube. It’s still bustling with summer evening foot traffic, everyone ignoring the man with a mike and portable speaker who is yelling at us to accept God into our lives. Joshua manoeuvres us into an alcove next to Borough Market entrance so we can stop and awkwardly say goodbye to one another without the added awkwardness of people trying to walk past us and tutting.
‘So,’ he says, looking like he wants to kiss me again.
‘Thanks for the wine,’ I say. ‘And for not being a scary psychopath. You never know with dating apps.’
Another big hearty laugh. ‘You’re welcome.’
I don’t tell him I had a good time because I reckon Gretel is the sort of person who doesn’t dole out compliments easily. You have to earn them from her; you have to draw her attention away from whatever incredible adventure she’s on, or whimsical thought she is having. I can sense the cringey hug/back-pat goodbye of previous dates, so I lean in, kiss him gently on the cheek, and say, ‘You get home safe now.’ Then I turn and go. Down into the gullet of the London Underground, not once looking back.
I get out my card to let me through the barriers, and smile at the busker as I float down the escalators past posters for West End musicals I’m never able to afford because I live in London. I slump onto a germ-ridden seat with an oomph and the Tube snakes through the darkness and back home. I love riding the Tube at this time of night. When everyone is heady from alcohol and either going home happy after a few too many, or off out to make the evening into a bigger one. Giddy anticipation drips from the ceiling, and it’s that sort of atmosphere where, if someone was to start singing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, everyone around would just join in. I change onto the District line, grinning as I skirt around a gang of tourists, blearily following someone holding up an umbrella as a guide. I plop onto my second train and get the pang I sometimes get. The I’m-so-lucky-to-live-in-London pang, when I think about how those tourists saved up to come here and goggle at what I mindlessly walk past every day. I open my planner and jot down some notes for tomorrow’s meeting. I work out what time I need to set my alarm and set it on my phone. Then I plan what to have for breakfast, running through the ingredients I know to be in the fridge. If I get up ten minutes earlier, I can scramble eggs. I smile at the thought of this as I walk home. Already wanting it to be morning so I can eat breakfast.
It’s only when I reach the end of my road, that I realise it.
I’ve gone the whole journey home without thinking about my date with Joshua.
He left my thought process the moment I walked away without looking back. I didn’t even wonder if he watched me as I walked away, and I normally always wonder that.
I have not analysed my behaviour for anything I did or said wrong, and then tortured myself with all the nuggets of non-perfect-humaning I’m quickly able dredge up. I have not pored over every single thing he said, sifting it for evidence of commitment issues, personality disorders, a desire to have children, and/or ex-girlfriends he may still be in love with. I’ve not obsessed over the moment he took my hands, and how he almost kissed me, or berated myself for not letting him kiss me, because it may have put him off, even though I didn’t particularly want to be kissed anyway. I’ve not checked my phone the instant I’m above ground to see if he’s messaged, and let the outcome of that dictate how I feel about myself and my life. I’ve not rung Megan immediately to debrief her on all the above and to get her take on it because