The Northerner is an absolute knockout: green eyes like springtime and warm russet locks – it’s like she’s been plucked straight from my lesbian dreams. I meet her outside the bar, slightly flustered after trotting from the tube and feel like I’ve been sucker punched in the stomach. Holy shit – it’s my future wife!
We head inside and have a rummage until we spy a pair of battered armchairs in a dark corner. Perfect. “I’ll just get us some drinks,” I blather, before sprinting upstairs and wandering aimlessly around the bar looking for menus and a tissue to mop up my alarmingly runny nose.
“Are you alright madam?” a solicitous waiter asks.
“Yes, yes I’m fine!” I squeak. Jesus woman, pull yourself together!
Back downstairs I’m nervous and chirrupy. I talk 19 to the dozen about my job, my house, my friends, my hobbies before becoming dimly aware that her eyes are as glazed as a summer pudding. Not only have I barreled headfirst into crashing bore territory, I seem to be building a small colony here.
I calm down, breathe, and let her get a word in edgeways. She tells me about her job as a nurse, her childhood in rural Yorkshire and how much she loves animals. She’s so…wholesome. God, I want to kiss you under an apple tree I think.
We have absolutely nothing in common, of course. I’m a die-hard Londoner; wizened and wry and rough-as-old-boots whilst she simmers with joy and optimism like a bowl of chicken soup. I’d eat her for breakfast – and then I’d eat her for breakfast.
Our wines finished, she suggests going for a drink somewhere else. I take her to an underground cocktail bar with low lighting, plush velvet sofas and strong martinis: classic for her, lavender for me.
We slurp and flirt and slowly shimmy closer together until those beguiling eyes look wanton and wanting in the dark.
“I really want to kiss you…” she murmurs.
Oh well, if you must.
We kiss: a long, sweet, sticky toffee pudding of a kiss that makes my legs go wobbly. She moans softly with pleasure and I shiver deep inside. We pull apart and her mouth is drenched in my scarlet lipstick.
“You might want to go to the ladies if you don’t fancy outing yourself to everyone on the night bus,” I say. She giggles and totters to the bathroom as I take another bracing swig of my martini.
We say goodnight and make plans to see each other again. She texts the next day saying she can’t wait to see me again and I reply, giddy, with the days that I’m free.
I never hear from her again.
“She’s mad,” my friends say sympathetically, topping up my wine to the brim. “She’d probably want to live on a farm in the wilds with eight dogs and a sow, it would never work out.”
They’re right, but I can’t help swearing off dating apps for a week to lick my wounds. She’s the first woman I’ve felt really attracted to – who knows when that will happen again?