I think for a moment – several moments – before replying:
‘Hitting a museum…’
‘…but otherwise fairly relaxed.’
I.e. I have absolutely nothing on. This isn’t deliberate; I haven’t cleared my diary to ensure we meet. It’s rather that I’ve had a busy week, and made plans for Sunday. So Saturday I’ve set aside for the 3 R’s: rest, recovery and writing. And, at some point, seeing Viable Prospect.
I wouldn’t normally do this, but it’s been eight months. I need to meet the guy, have my worst fears confirmed, and put the thing to bed, or… y’know.
With each text that arrives in my inbox I find myself getting more and more pissed off. There’s nothing in them to provoke as such but, well, I suggested this meeting, so any turn of phrase which could be read as him suggesting he’s doing me a favor in going through with it, I’m hypersensitive to.
4pm, and I’ve got that sinking feeling. VP still hasn’t confirmed the time (7pm) and venue, and, and this is the real reason, before me looms the British Museum.
I dash off a text. ‘You’re welcome to join.’
‘Do you have plans late?’ he sends back.
I’m not going to sleep with him.
4pm, 7pm, late. That whole ‘not letting on that I have an entirely free Saturday’ thing – not going so well. I could lie, pretend I’ve got a house party or drinks with a friend. But he might then say it’s not going to be possible to meet. So instead I say:
At best, I can just write this whole thing off as a mistake, an exercise in how not to play the dating game. Next thing I know I’m agreeing to meet on the opposite side of town from where I live, if only because I’m fed up of making decisions. The logistics of dating, eh? It’s little wonder people keep things online.
(TO BE CONTINUED)