(Continued from Feelin’ Good)
‘What’s your thing?’ he says. ‘Dancing?’
Only in times of crisis.
‘I’d say… writing.’
‘Like, creative writing? Short stories?’
‘More like… memoir?’
‘Wow. I’ve never met someone our age who’s writing a memoir.’
‘Sorry, no, not memoir, that’s the wrong word. They’re more like… vignettes, of life, about things that have happened to me.’
With a heavy – make that total – bias towards scenes of a romantic nature.
‘How many words are you at?’
‘Oh it’s – it’s not that kind of format. I….’ I think of Todd’s words, take a deep breath and go for it. ‘So I write an anonymous blog.’
‘Why’s it anonymous?’
Yes why IS it anonymous? And why did I feel the need to mention this fact?
‘So I can write what I want.’
‘And, what kind of thing would you write about?’
‘Give me an example, of something you’ve written about.’
I think. A wedding, a ball… my four very attractive colleagues.
He goes on, ‘Might you for instance write about this?’
I barely hesitate. ‘Potentially.’
‘That’s all I wanted,’ he says, with a grin.
I laugh. I have no idea what he means.
He makes as if to unfold his jumper.
‘Are you going?’ I say, looking at it.
It occurs to me I might have just done something very very stupid. The sort of thing that would elicit a sigh and an eye roll and a ‘Well, what did you expect to happen?’ from my mother.
But I like this guy. I really like him. And by some perverse logic that makes me want to tell the truth.
He laughs. ‘No.’
Half an hour later, we’re outside Sainsbury’s.
‘I don’t know – if you want to do this again? Or you can tell me on WhatsApp,’ he adds quickly.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘and you let me know too.’
I go to hug him. And there, in the afternoon light, on a busy South London pavement, we kiss.
Lost For Words
The Eyes Have It