My flatmate barks instructions at me, as I carefully transfer mints from his dispenser to mine.
‘Make it easy for him to kiss you.’
I have an image of myself standing with my mouth hanging open.
Joe offers me his arm; I take it.
‘I’ve always wanted to see what it’s like, with someone my own height.’
‘I think it works.’
His tone is gentle.
We take a left turn, into a quiet street. Our eyes meet for a long moment; we both look away. He laughs, and comes to a halt, releasing my arm. He’s avoiding my eye.
‘Errr…’ He laughs again, slightly nervous. ‘I’d like to kiss you…’
So far, so good; but there’s more.
‘… because I’ve never kissed someone my own height.’
Hmmm. He sounds in earnest. This is weird. For the first time this evening, I’m thinking about how to write it up: never a good sign.
He comes closer, and kisses me. I’m not thinking about the write-up; I’m not thinking about anything.
I pull back a fraction.
‘Is that the only reason you wanted to do that? Because of my height?’
He laughs again, but his tone is serious.
I’m stumped. My mouth probably is hanging open.
This is bad, really bad.
He kisses me again – not so bad – then smiles. ‘I kinda like you.’