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‘Roxster, my photo is of an egg,’ I said, slurping at the wine, remembering too late that I was supposed to sit back and let him look at me stroking the stem of the wine glass arousingly.
‘I know.’
‘Weren’t you worried I might turn out to be a sixteen-stone cross-dresser?’
‘Yes. I’ve got eight of my mates planted in the bar to protect me.’
‘That’s spooky,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a parade of hit men lined up in all the windows across the street in case you try to murder me and then eat me.’
‘Have they all been fartaged?’
I was just taking a slurp of wine and laughed in the middle, then choked with the wine still in my mouth, and sick started coming up my throat.
‘Are you all right?’
I waved my hand around. My mouth was a mixture of sick and wine. Roxster gave me a handful of paper napkins. I made my way to the loos, holding the napkins over my mouth. Got inside just in time and spurted the sick/wine into the washbasin, wondering if I should add ‘Do not be sick in own mouth at start of date’ to the Dating Rules.
I washed my mouth out, remembering with relief that there was a kid’s toothbrush somewhere at the bottom of my handbag. And some gum.
When I got out Roxster had found us a table and was looking at his phone.
‘I thought I was supposed to be the one who was obsessed with vomit,’ he said, without looking up. ‘I’m just tweeting your followers all about it.’
‘You’re not?’
‘Noooo.’ He handed me back my phone and started laughing. ‘Are you all right?’ He was laughing so much now he could hardly speak. ‘Sorry, I just can’t believe you were sick in your own mouth on our first date.’
In the midst of giggling, I realized he had just said ‘our first date’. And ‘first’ clearly implied that there would be others in spite of sick-in-own-mouth.
‘Are you going to fart next?’ he said, just as the waiter arrived with the menus.
‘Shut up, Roxster,’ I giggled. I mean, honestly, he did have a mental age of seven, but it was fun because it made me feel so at home. And maybe this was someone who wouldn’t be completely appalled by the bodily functions on display in our household.
As we opened the menus, I realized I didn’t have my glasses any more.
I looked at the blurry letters, panicking. Roxster didn’t notice. He seemed completely overexcited by the food. ‘Mmm. Mmm. What are you going to have, Jonesey?’
I stared at him like a rabbit caught in headlights.
‘Everything all right?’
‘I’ve lost my glasses,’ I mumbled sheepishly.
‘We must have left them on the bar,’ he said, getting up. Marvelling at his impressive young physique, I watched him go to where we had been standing, look around, and ask the barman.
‘They’re not there,’ he said, coming back, looking concerned. ‘Are they expensive ones?’
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ I lied. (They were expensive ones. And I really liked them.)
‘Would you like me to read the menu to you? I could cut up your food for you as well if you like.’ He started laughing. ‘Have to watch out for your teeth.’
‘Roxster, this is a very undesirable line of teasing.’
‘I know, I know, I’m sorry.’
After he’d read me the menu, I tried to remember the Dating Rules, rubbing my finger delicately up and down the stem of the wine glass, but there didn’t seem
to be any point, as Roxster already had my knee between his strapping young thighs. Realized, even in the midst of excitement, was DETERMINED to find the glasses. Is so easy to let something like that go out of sexual distraction and embarrassment and they were really, really nice glasses.
