His messages become less and less frequent and less and less carefully written. Eventually, two days having elapsed since our last contact, I crack. He replies and a conversation ensues.
I write my messages in my head before he’s even replied, which is silly, not least because he’s wholly unpredictable. That’s one of the things I love about him.
Saturday, I wake to the flu and a message asking how I am.
‘Poor you!’ he sends back. Then something witty. It’s always something witty.
In the evening, I take my phone and book, and go down to the garden and read. One hour and two pages later, I still haven’t heard from him. It’s probably a good thing: if I did, I might reply with the question I’ve been itching to ask ever since we met, but which I still don’t know how to phrase. The problem is, there’s no way of asking it without making my feelings apparent, and I’m not sure I’m ready to put myself on the line.
The next day, an email arrives in my inbox: a new post from one of my favourite dating bloggers. Certain phrases resonate:
I think we often overthink things when it comes to dating, and we certainly hold back in fear of what the other person might think[.]
[A]ny gesture from the heart is a good one. And if, for any reason, the person you’re trying to impress thinks otherwise, screw em.
‘Do you have plans to be in London any time in the near future?’
‘Would you like to see me again?’
‘What do you think about seeing each other again?’
I might never ask it, never hear his answer. Because, in a way, I already have.
A River In Egypt