The Definition Of Insanity

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CC Image courtesy of Stigs on FlickrThere are some people whose messages give you that feeling.  Butterflies.  Their name appears on the screen and you don’t open it right away.  Instead you use the fact it’s there, waiting for you, as leverage, to make you do some chore you’ve been putting off.  As you unload the dishwasher, or make lunch for the following day, you try not to think about it.  The message will disappoint; it always does.

 

It’s inevitable that when I go back on Tinder, Viable Prospect crosses my mind.  Imagine, I think to myself of an evening, if he got back in touch.  I would… ignore it.  Yes, that’s what I’d do.  It’s only a fleeting thought, I mean, why would he contact me?  How would he even know I was back on it?  Unless he was browsing his chat history and saw I’d recently been ‘active’ (shudder).  But people don’t do that.  I dismiss the thought.

 

Mid-week, I’m kicking back on the sofa, editing a post probably.  Or stalking Matthew.  More likely stalking Matthew.  I see my phone flashing white and swipe the screen.

There he is, in all his blue-eyed, bright-smiled, typo-free glory. Being witty, damn him.

Last time I held out twenty-four hours before replying – a Christmas miracle.  I also told myself that if he hadn’t suggested meeting up after two weeks, I would leave it.  Which I did.

I last all of ten minutes – ten minutes, for Christ’s sake! – before writing back.

Each time I hear from the guy I think maybe, just maybe, he’ll ask me out.  He doesn’t.  Not for a moment do I seriously believe I won’t reply.  That’s not true.  In the seconds immediately after reading each message, feeling that familiar wave of disappointment, I swear off the whole thing.  Even as I type the words, I’m hating him, hating myself for my complete lack of self-discipline.  How many other women are caught in his web?  To be fair, most are probably asleep.  It’s gone 1am and I’ve just been told I’m weird/attractive.  Which is enough to make me smile into my pillow.

Charming, blue-eyed, bright-smiled Viable Prospect thinks I’m weird/attractive.

I might be both, or neither, but I’m definitely a fool.

CC Image courtesy of tim ellis on Flickr

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That’s A Great Question

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CC Image courtesy of Boz Bros on FlickrThere are so many great questions involved in a first date with someone you really like.

There’s the asking out itself, the ‘would you like to meet for a drink/dinner/to watch paint dry?’

The serious questions, like, ‘What do you write about?’

Errr…

The really serious questions, like, ‘What’s your favourite chocolate?’

The everyday questions, like ‘how are you?’

There’s a wonderful line in Secret Diary of a Call Girl:  ‘You know how I feel.  And you know why?  Cos you are the only one who ever asks.’

And the best question of all, when you’re leaving the restaurant around 11pm and he turns to you on the pavement.

‘Would you like to get a drink somewhere?’

And your stomach flips, not because the curry was dodge, but because the night isn’t over; because the stakes just got higher; because you’re aching to kiss him, and it might just happen.

CC Image courtesy of victoriapeckham on Flickr



My Cup Of Tea

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CC Image courtesy of kate with a camera on Flickr(Continued from Slow Motion)

‘So, taxi or bus?’

I’m getting the bus,’ I say with a smile.

He glances down the street.  ‘Do you have time for a cup of tea?’ 

‘Hmm best not.’

Crunch time.

‘Then how about drinks one night this week?’

I feel a wave of relief.  We fix on a date.  He takes my hand and leads me away from the crowded pavement.  Against the wall, he kisses me, soft and slow.  A passer-by cackles and shrieks, ‘She wants it!’

We laugh. 

She does.