And the award for ‘inability to read men’ goes to…
‘Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I say.
At the ball.
We’ve just bused back from a dance practice together: forty-five minutes of discussing London transport, careers, and travel (which for me means London transport, but for him means South America and milonga lessons), all the while trying not to ogle at his good looks.
‘Yes – it should be good,’ he says.
He’s not interested; I’m sure of it. So sure, that by the time I get home, half an hour later, I’ve almost forgotten about him. I don’t even look him up on Facebook before going to bed. Crazy.
(TO BE CONTINUED)