Not my type, at all
It started off all wrong. I knew it when I spent fifteen minutes trying to find my mascara among my sons’ toys and I ended up in a frantic, James Bond style drive, to try to get there on time. Whose idea was this, a blind date? And a real blind one, I mean, as you did not even bother to attach a picture to your profile. Well, at least the place is central and my friends are out in Soho, I can join them in no time, as soon as this date is over. Soon, being the operative word! I mean it.
Your emails were nice, sounds like we have lots of ideas in common. Yes, but about what? Generalities, common sense, I mean, what is the possibility of meeting someone you really like on one of these sites. And what is the possibility of meeting someone I really like in this moment of my life. I have been struggling with a divorce, a new job, a million sleepless nights. I am tired, twisted, and probably bitter. Well, here we are. And Covent Garden is now grid locked with the evening rush hour traffic. I am so late. Now, you are calling on the phone. I think it would make more sense if u jumped in the car, or else I will not be in that café for a long time if I try to find a parking space here. Reversing once more, trying to get closer to our meeting place. My car door opens. How did you know this was me? You knew it. Fine, you have seen my picture. Come in then, let’s get away from here. And how long did I spend doing my hair earlier? You guessed it, not just a light smattering of rain, but a torrential down pour! You look relaxed and you let me know this is not your first time. It is dark, I cannot see you. You look young, I suppose. But, not my type at all.
Let’s get this done, a coffee, or something a little stronger, in fact, I am nervous. The bar is terrible. I know this area well, but suddenly nothing comes to my mind as to where to go. And you are by far too casual to be seen in my usual haunts. This one will do, even if it is a bit gloomy, old fashioned with green vinyl on the chairs, and flock wallpaper, we don’t need to stay long.
Ok, so what do you do, who are you, whatever, just start talking please, and don’t leave all the responsibility to me to drive this conversation! You start talking. Slowly at first, about your job and all the travelling associated with it. And you talk about events I know well. I read about politics, you observe it. Gin for me, Vodka for you. And you talk more and I listen, entertained, to your clever, acute comments. Your eyes are animated; they move quickly, I guess you are also looking at me. You talk; I listen, more attentive now. The drink is over, your story is not. Do you want to eat something, maybe, it’s almost nine. Yes, ok something simple. A small cozy place, hard to find, with this rain on a Friday night. Finally we sit, dry, in this French bistro. God bless red wine. Please talk more, say more. I cannot stop listening to your stories, flashes of a life constantly on the move. Recent history develops in front of my eyes, now more and more fixed on your lips. How is it going? The date, I mean. Well, me, I am not sure. You talk some more, please. I now cannot take my eyes away from your lips.
I get up. You will excuse me, just a minute. Your lips are still moving, mine seal them, just for a moment. The two guys at the table next to us look surprised. I smile. You know, sometimes there is no other way to shut him up! They smile back at me, disappearing through the ladies door. Did I kiss him? I did. Why? I do not know. He is not my type, at all. The dinner is almost untouched, nothing wrong with it, just too many things to say. It’s my turn now. We walk out of the restaurant but who wants to sleep? I need to say more, to know more. Along the staircase we cannot stop the flow, we keep talking over a beer, sitting on the floor til the words bring us close. So close. And then they stop, for a long time. We descend the street thrilled; I drop you a few miles away. I stay still in my car, looking at you walking away, you look young, and you could be a student in London. I smile. I would like to still have my white vespa; I would certainly stop to give you a lift, along the hills of Tuscany. Strange, as you were not my type, at all.
By Dolce Vita
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