I’ve just finished a dirty lunch with the girl of my dreams.
Why so dirty? I hear you ask. Excellent question. You see the thing is that uhm, she is somewhat … umh, unavailable. What with the husband and all.
Oh stop it. That does not make me a home wrecker. I consider myself more of a home makeover specialist. You take this, you put it over there, it isn’t load bearing; extend the living area outside with similar floor treatments; give this bit over here a lick of paint; and voila, you’re old place has a new lease of life.
She’s amazing, this girl. For the sake of this story I will call her Erica. (Because her real name is Erica and her husband will never suspect a thing if I use her real name.) Beautiful, every bit of her. There is no part that I don’t want to use to wake her up with a prod. She does things to me (mentally and physically) that only chicks in love songs do to effeminate masculine singers from the 90’s. But enough of that, you can picture your own damn girl.
We met today for a tawdry lunch. It was to be our last. I was there first; she has the upper hand. That’s because she’s got the better relationship. This is how it works. She has everything to lose, I have nothing to lose. I’m like Arnold Schwarzenegger in … every movie he’s ever been in.
But, dear reader, the sparks fly. Oh do they fly. I started with low expectations, which reminds me that I have not yet described myself to you. I am the sort of man for which a woman has no expectations. And if she does they are immediately disappointed. So here I am: me. And Erica.
We’re at a restaurant for lunch. She booked, because I’m still a child. I know that I’m not, and she knows that I’m not, but she books anyway. I think on the off-chance that I won’t be OK dealing with the whole booking procedure. Or maybe just because she’s being nice.
I’m here early. And not early for 12pm. I’m early for 11:50am, when I expect her to be here. I check the entrance every four seconds. I send her a text: I’m checking the entrance every four seconds. This is a mistake, because now I know she’s across the street watching. Making sure that I’m checking the entrance every four seconds. My neck hurts. She arrives.