Draught Excluder
The restaurant door didn’t even slam, the soft swoosh of the draught excluder the only sound as she exited.
“You are the worst person I have ever encountered in my entire life,” she said.
I smiled. We had only met an hour ago; she had worked it out so quickly.
I’d read somewhere that on dates it is advisable to ask people questions about themselves. It shows you’re attentive, that you care about the answers, that you are eager to make a genuine connection based upon shared understandings. Inquiring about their lives, gaining insights into their character, following up with additional queries; all of this enables the prober to appear empathetic, attuned to humanity, interesting through the prism of interest. Importantly, it makes the questioner more attractive. The article may have gone on to detail the particular questions that are most apt to achieve optimal results. But, as she so adeptly identified, I was the worst person she had ever encountered in her entire life, and I’d skimmed it.
…
Very little time passed. The silence could not accurately be described as comfortable.
…
I only noticed how creased my shirt was now the red soaked like blood into the cheap cotton. I doubted the stain would come out.
When she threw the wine on my face a few drops went into my open mouth, shocked in advance. I tasted its overly acidic flavour, the second cheapest option on the menu, as the liquid dribbled onto my collar.
“You’re so arrogant,” she snarled. No, she didn’t snarl. She spoke, steadily, with the authority of someone sure of the veracity of her words. I didn’t feel arrogant, though, I felt confused. Was my confusion arrogant?
“Especially in my line of work,” I said, scrabbling to change the subject. “Speaking of which...” She cut me off. Was I emasculated by her accomplishments? Now that she mentioned it.
I tried to land on what I hoped was a jokey voice. “I am trying to do you a favour. You know, it costs good money for that kind of guidance.”
She clamped her hands together tightly, leaving pink blotches when she finally prized her fingers apart. Well, at least it was encouraging to elicit strong reactions, I thought, grasping for positives.
“I don’t know what right you think you have to talk to me like that,” she said. “As if I came here asking you for advice, like you’re doing me a favour.”
“You know, be the face of the brand and all that,” I suggested, warming up to my subject and ignoring her offended expression. “Use the word ‘contouring’. I’ve heard my niece mention that. Of course, you’ll need someone to shoot the videos properly, make you look professional but not obviously staged - natural.”
“What makes you think I want to do that? I just told you; I already have my own business.”
“Why don’t you try a make-up start-up,” I offered, noticing that she was wearing mascara and saying the first thing that came into my head to break the charged quiet. “There’s so much demand for that kind of thing – people will buy any old rubbish. You’d be perfect for it,” I added. I wanted to come across flattering, but somehow landed on condescending.
…
Quite a long time passed. The silence had a simmering quality, like a film was forming upon its surface.
…
I panicked. Had she talked about it before? Why couldn’t I remember? It wasn’t as if my inbox was overflowing. “That’s cool,” I said, trying to sound calm while my cheeks grew hot. “Perhaps I’m getting you mixed up with someone else.” That was the wrong thing to say, I knew immediately. Her left eye flinched, just for a millisecond.
“I run my own branding agency. We do campaigns for fashion houses, that sort of thing. I thought I mentioned it in the texts?”
“No, go on, I’m intrigued.” I did my best intrigued face, hand on chin.
“It’s not very exciting,” she said, but perked up as she spoke, making it unclear if she was being modest or honest. Why was this so difficult?
“So, what do you do,” I asked. Learning about somebody’s occupation was a shortcut to intimacy – a successful businessman said so on LinkedIn. Work was where we spent most of our time, so didn’t everyone care about that most?
We spoke about inanities, commutes, how much colder it was in the winter than in the summer and how much this shocked us every year. Food arrived at some point. Wine too, for her, whiskey for me. A grown-up date drink, I’d heard on a podcast. Empty plates left the table; we remained.
…
A long period went by. We could have been talking about anything - supernovas, profiteroles, myxomatosis, the sensation you get when your legs go numb. Nothing she said necessarily connected with anything I said, but perhaps that meant our interests intersected at a fascinating juncture. I thought it was going quite well.
…
Now that I got a proper look at her, I was reassured to realise she was pretty but not beautiful. Perhaps she wasn’t out of my league. Or maybe she was, because now I felt guilty at my relief. She had worked out the appropriate clothes to wear for her particular shape, the suitable style to amplify her attributes, the mythical mixture of timeless and on trend. She had mastered the craft of adjusting her mannerisms to maximise her appeal to the person in front of her, which happened to be me. I wondered where she’d learned.
…
She was sexy, in a way that made me shy. I hoped my shyness didn’t come off as aloofness.
Time raced by. I’ve never quite known the definition for bon mots, but I think we were exchanging them.
We agreed that the apps were a fiery hellscape and were mutually reassured that we had reached salvation, if only for a quick bite.
…
I had stood up, waved, taken her hand in mine as our eyes met, then swept back her chair. She sat, gesturing with her outstretched palm for me to do likewise. We’d just met and were basically dancing.
…
The lights had gone out when she walked in. I don’t mean in a metaphorical or divine way. The restaurant, an Italian place on the West side, must have had a system whereby the bulbs dimmed at 7pm sharp.
…
I was nervous before I left my apartment, but I wouldn’t admit it to her now. It was my first time meeting somebody since the breakup. I was useless at this back when I had all my hair and attempted to approach people in real life. I’d heard horror stories about psychos, women using men for free dinners (was that so bad?), getting stood up. I’d looked up what ‘ghosted’ meant.
I changed my shirt three times, eventually going back to the white one I’d put on first, which I’d discarded for being too informal. Maybe its casualness would rub off on me and hide my anxiety.
…
“Yes, hi,” she replied. “It’s so good to meet you. I’ve been looking forward to tonight.”
“Hi, you must be Elle,” I said. “I’m Clark.”
I smiled. I had a good feeling about this.
Greg Rose has published fiction in Spry Literary Journal, Volume 1 Brooklyn and Neuro Magazine, with further writing in The Times, The Guardian, National Geographic and NME. A former journalist and footballer, Greg directs content and communications for Virgin. He was born in England and lives in Brooklyn. Twitter: @greglrose IG: @gregorylewisrose