Morgan
Oh, there she is. Should I wave so she sees me, or does that seem too eager? Should I play it cool and look down at my ph-
Nope. She’s already seen me. She’s walking over, weaving her way between tables, the fabric of her dress stretching deliciously over the curve of her hips with each step. Damn, she looks…
You look lovely.
Really? Is that the best…
Thank you, so do you.
..I could come up with? She’s beside the table now and she shrugs off her jacket. Cake is lovely. A good cup of tea is lovely. She’s fucking gorgeous, though, with the auburn waves of her hair bouncing around her shoulders and that small smile playing upon her lips… Is she smiling like that because she’s, I don’t know, shy, or is it because she’s weirded out? Was it a bit much…
Oh, you got me a drink already. Thanks.
..to order what she’d said was her favourite drink at a party we went to about three weeks ago? Is it weird that I remembered that? We were pretty drunk. Does she even remember telling me that?
Yeah, erm, sorry. I should’ve asked what you…
No, no, no. Not at all. This is great. Rum and coke is my favourite anyway.
She sits down opposite me and I see a waiter make a beeline for our table. Was she just being polite about the drink thing? I don’t know, maybe it seemed a bit stalkerish? I mean…
Hello, ladies. Can I get you a basket of bread while you’re deciding?
Ooh, yes, please. Ooh, yes, please.
..isn’t it a weirdly specific detail to remember? I guess on the scale of things to remember, it’s not like I remembered the earrings she was wearing when we first met…
They were dangly ones, two small, jewel-encrusted owls hanging on their respective delicate gold chains.
Well, shit.
She’s looking at me, her head tilted to one side in a silent question. I grin and a nervous, breathy laugh escapes.
You good? The ice in her glass clinks as she lifts it to those rose-tinted lips.
I’m…
..in awe of your presence? Mesmerised by your beauty? Floored by your smile?
I’m fine. Just nerves, you know.
A small wicker basket of bread rolls bumps down onto the table and we both instinctively reach out. Our fingers brush against each other’s, but neither of us jerks our hand back with a giggle and a shy smile like they do in romance movies. No. She just emits a laugh and only pulls away when she’s got a bread roll. Even though the touch of her cool fingers was fleeting, I feel bereft.
As she laughs, she displays teeth that are perfect in their imperfection. Her canines overlap her two front teeth ever so slightly and I imagine those same teeth nipping my bottom lip as we kiss.
Seriously, don’t be nervous. I don’t bite.
Oh. She tears her bread roll into strips, looking off to the side at nothing in particular.
I guess I’m a bit nervous too.
Here’s to being nervous.
Have I actually just raised a bread roll as a toast? Yes. Yes, I have. Have I always been this…
Oh, she’s raising her bread roll too…and laughing, thank fuck. I seriously hope that she thinks it's part of some innate cute charm that I definitely do not actually possess and not just me being weird. Or maybe she raised it in pity because she didn’t want me to suffer this bizarre faux pas on my own? I just need to play it cool. That’s right. I just need to lean forward and… Yep, gently smush our raised bread rolls together.
To being nervous.
She pulls her arm back and places the roll on her side plate.
Here.
I pass the butter. Fuck. Does she even want butter? If she did, wouldn’t she have just grabbed it herself? Does she feel pressured into having butter now? Oh, God. Is she vegan? I…I can’t remember. How can I remember her favourite drink, but not that? I… Stop. Overthinking. She’s a grown woman. If she didn’t want butter, she’d say, right?
Well, she’s eating the bread roll, butter and all, and there’s no pained looks flitting across her face. That’s a good sign… Am I really measuring the success of a date against how comfortable she looks eating a bloody bread roll?
The waiter’s coming back over. Oh, God. I haven’t even looked at the menu amid the chaos of Breadgate. Okay, maybe it wasn’t…
Have you decided what you’d like?
..disastrous enough to have -gate affixed to the end of it, but still, it was pretty mortifying.
Oh, God, I haven’t even looked at the menu.
Well, at least it’s not just me. I think I might spontaneously combust if I embarrass myself again. The waiter looks slightly pissed off despite the smiling mask he’s donned.
Would you like a few…
I’ll have the pie of the day.
Same.
Shit. First I order her favourite drink before she even gets here and now I’ve gone for the same food as her…and I remember the earrings she was wearing on the night we met. Is there a Buzzfeed quiz that measures your stalker percentage? I bet there is. I should check when I get…
I think that was a case of panic ordering. I don’t even know know what the pie of the day is!
She’s laughing and now I’m laughing too. Why are we laughing? Is it the prospect of mystery pies? Are we laughing in dismay because of how badly this date is going so far? I don’t know, but I can’t stop and apparently neither can she. My eyes are actually watering. I haven’t laughed this hard in… I don’t know actually. Oh, God. People are beginning to stare. Maybe a swig of drink will help?
Fuck! Did I actually just snort and send lemonade shooting out of my nose?
I did and now she’s pretty much howling. Is she laughing with me or at me? At me, I guess, because I’m not actually laughing anymore. I’m just sat here with lemonade dripping from my nose and chin and onto my stupid bread roll. Great. Just great.
The same waiter is heading for our table. He kind of looks like he’s dancing with the way his hips move as he weaves between the tables, a plate balanced on the palm of each hand. I hastily grab a napkin and wipe the lemonade from my face.
Saved by the pies.
Two pies of the day.
There’s a sharp edge to his voice. Jeez, we were only laughing. It’s not like we were having a food fight or a shouting match littered with expletives and scandal.
Thank you. Her cheeks flush as she tries to fight another impending wave of laughter.
That’s right, Mr Waiter, off you pop. Go to the kitchen and see if you can find some humour in the fridges.
Shit.
Oh, God. What now?
She’s giggling again. She cuts into the pie and spears a chunk of – Beef? Venison? – with her knife.
I’m a vegetarian.
She looks at me…
..I look at her…
..and we’re laughing again. This. Is. A. Fucking. Disaster.
She glances beyond my shoulder and out the window. I twist in my seat and follow her gaze. Across the road, two homeless men huddle in a shop doorway.
They might appreciate a meal.
I push my plate away and reach for my bag on the floor. I snatch up my purse and unzip it, pulling out a couple of twenties.
And I know a great veggie place in town.
I slap the notes upon the table and she grabs her jacket from the back of her chair.
It can’t get any worse, right?
