moment. ‘I’ve not thought about it like that.’ She’s careful to chime in with a tiny titbit here and there, just to reassure Josh that she’s well-informed enough, just not as much as he is. ‘Oh, yes, I read about that. It’s so sad for Jerusalem,’ she chirps. He looks momentarily surprised, then a bit relieved, then a bit enchanted, and then a bit threatened. He tells me more facts he’s read off the Guardian about Jerusalem. His workmates are forgotten. The sun is finally down. Some come over and say goodbye and we reluctantly break for Joshua to say ‘I’ll see you on Monday’ and for me to say ‘it was nice to meet you’. We lean back into one another before they’ve even left. We share stories of being young, of both growing up in boring suburban towns and the weird stuff you used to do in order to pass time as a teenager.
‘Do you remember, when you were, like, 11, downing loads of own-brand cola from the supermarket to get “hyper”?’ I ask.
‘Oh my God, hyper! I forgot about getting hyper! We used to do the same, but we added sachets of sugar into the cola to make it extra strong.’
‘Yikes. Speed balling. Aged 11. You sound like a right rebel.’
He takes my hand and squeezes it, and it’s annoying how good it feels. ‘Oh Gretel,’ he says. ‘I work in IT. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for someone to use the word “rebel” in reference to me.’
‘Rebel.’
‘Please keep saying that.’
‘Oh my God, Joshua, you’re such a rebel.’
‘This is the best day of my life.’
I lean my head to the side. ‘What can I say, rebel? I’m here to make all your dreams come true.’
Then he’s kissing me, just like that. On the pavement, with the braying of pissed humans all around us. I didn’t see the kiss coming but I go with it, my head bleary with too many different types of alcohol. Joshua’s too pushy with his tongue and I have to concentrate on breathing through my nose. I wonder for a moment how he can get to his age and still think this is an appropriate amount of tongue. Then I remember a fact I read in one of the self-help books about how men use tongue kissing to get you to taste their pheromones. He lets out a little groan and kisses me even deeper, pulling me closer and spilling a bit of beer down the back of my dress. I let Gretel ignore it, as she is supposed to be so into this kiss. And, again, what’s annoying is, even though Joshua isn’t a very good kisser, my body is still doing all sorts of things in response to this kiss. I can taste our compatibility. I can feel my heart thud harder under the thin fabric of my dress. I can feel feelings brewing, a desire unfurling, the urge to be with him and win him and keep him and grow mini hims in my stomach. Sex is such a trap. I forget every time how much it sucks you in, and sucks you dry, makes you lose sight of yourself and your actual needs – rather than the needs activated by biological tripwires and unmet childhood developmental stages. I refuse to be caught though. I am done done done. I can override this. I must. I let him kiss me a while longer, but then I break it off. I put my forehead to his.
‘Well I wasn’t expecting that to happen,’ I whisper, which is the truth actually.
‘I really fancy you,’ he says, before pulling me back into a kiss despite my clear signal to stop. I try not to roll my eyes as I let his need to kiss me overrule my desire to not be kissed any more. I am well-rehearsed in this sort of thing. It’s as easy as tying a shoelace, letting men push past my boundaries. Easier than sneezing. I pull away as quickly as I can get away with though.
‘So, you fancy me, huh?’
‘I think it’s obvious that I do.’
‘Makes dating so much easier, doesn’t it? When you fancy them?’ I am careful not to tell him I fancy him back. Now is not the time for that card. He needs to worry and stew that maybe I don’t.
He laughs. ‘Yes. Much easier. So, can I see you again?’