Running (away) if you call my name

Now that my prefrontal-cortex has finally developed, aloof phrases completely resonate with me. Along with everything that's meant for you will find you, and, if not more annoyingly, if it's meant to be, it will be.

Recently, post-diagnosis, I was doing more crying than laughing. Now that things are good again, and the only way really is up, I can reflect. Given my love life is thriving, it seems only right to recap from the not so hot times.

It's my first date ever. I'm twenty-three (almost, not March quite yet). I've spent the last two hours picking out quite frankly the most bland outfit ever: green skirt, green rollneck, boots. I look like a tree. Unfortunately, I think it looks good. I wear my mums leather jacket with a fur lining, as it's the only coat I have with a hood.

"It is completely pissing it down," I say over the phone.

"Honestly, you'll be fine. Is he there yet?" That's my best friend, keeping me company. Pre-date phone calls will later become an anxious habit. Don't lie, you do it too. Makes you look less like a loser if you're on your phone, in high demand, right? Right.

Stood outside the bar in the now torrential rain - it looked like no, he was not.

s.slape: Hey are you here?

Hello?

?

I think i'm gonna go

Are you on the tube?

"I'll give it 5 more minutes," I say, 20 minutes later from the inside of a nearby 24-hour shop. The security guard looks a bit sad for me. Same.

My friend lets out what can only be described as an exasperated sigh. She's already told me to sack it off, that if he really liked me, he'd be ten minutes early. Minimum. Doubtlessly, it was a bad start. But it was my first date - it surely couldn't get worse?

Notably, yes it can. Everything can always get worse. Only say this phrase if you are a masochist, sadist, or a wilfully ignorant young adult in your first long term relationship (i'm looking at you).

"Oh my god! He's texted!"

will: walking now will be 4

"A man of many words..."

I roll my eyes. It clearly wasn't his fault I looked like a drowned rat, there must've been tube trouble. The date was so on.

He walks around the building, and from my viewpoint I can see him go inside. At least he didn't lie about his height (subtle foreshadowing). I let him grab a table and sit for minute or two so I look less-so like i've stood here waiting like a loser.

The waitress approaches. "Drinks?"

I glance at the menu to be polite, already knowing what I'm going to have. This was in my polite days where I never wanted to seem too-much. Too eager.

Eager is so in. Better shags too.

Smiling, I say "Please -"

"She'll have the red wine,"

Ex-cuse me? 'She will have the salad', will she fuck?

He glances to the waitress, back down, up again, "actually, we both will. Bottle of the pinot."

The waitress looks at me. I look at her. We look at my date. Will looks out the window.

"Uhh.. Ok..." she takes it down with a final look to me. I am still trying to collect flies in my mouth. Because I am too scared of him not fancying me, I let it go. (I'm good at that).

The date continues rather uneventfully.

Except, of course, Will ordering fries and trying to force feed me them.

"No, thanks, I ate before I came." I say, smile in place. Really good rival for a doll at this point.

"Just have a few," he grabs a handful, "honestly just try some, I can't eat them all." I eat the fries.

Oh, and lest we forget what he said when I first sat down.

"Sophie, right?"

"Hi! Yes, such a pleasure." Smile.

"You look nothing like your picture!"

I am, understandably, taken aback. "You what?"

He backtracks. "No, like, you look different in real life."

"I got that bit."

He waves his hands exaggeratedly as he digs his grave deeper. "Like, better in real life. Nothing like your pictures"-he puts his hands up in a placating-a-bear manner-"Though of course, your pictures are really nice too."

Smile.

"Right."

Then the wine fiasco happened. And the fries. Embarrassingly, an hour in he gets up (launches himself) from his seat to use the toilet. I check my makeup - only to find my teeth are literally stained red. With bits of sediment. All that smiling really shot myself in the foot, hey?

He comes back and waves the waitress over. It's the same lady we started with.

"You okay?" she says. She doesn't look at Will.

"All good." He chirps, thoughtfully. Don't need a thought in my head with this man. Lucky me! "Just the bill."

Hold on - we were getting the bill? Was I being dismissed?

Waitress looks at me. We have another moment. Frankly, I felt far more connected to her than anyone else at this point. She gets the machine, puts it down in front of him only. "We only take card."

My date is quite happy to pay, and I don't bother to offer. Given that I didn't order anything of my own volition, it was only fair.

"Thank you," I can't help saying. Besides, can it get worse?

We go to leave and I shrug my sopping wet coat on as he shifts on his feet.

Then - all of a sudden, and I mean genuinley, lightning fast, he is beside my neck. Vampire? Probably. Do they have vampires in Sydney?

He strokes my hood in a distressing way, given his closeness. "Is this real fur?"

I choke. What? "Uh. No... No I don't like real fur."

We leave it and head outside, and luckily it has stopped raining. He tells me how much he likes me (he's got over my ugly photos, then?). He takes a step way too far into my personal space, again.

"Are you sure it isn't real fur?" He pets me, a lot like a dog. "It feels like rabbit."

Fuck it. He was clearly a serial killer. "Yes. Yes it's real." Then - a moment of moral lucidity, "but it's my mum's from the eighties."

"Oh thank GOD. I HATE when girls-" he is specific about it only being women "-wear FAKE fur. It's so cheap and povo."

Yeh, that was the final straw. I never speak to Will again despite his attrative australian (likely fake) heritage. (He didn't even have the accent, so where was the joy in that?). I also never let a man order for me again, you'll be surprised to hear.

---

Now, I'm in Aqua Kyoto.

Yes, this should've been the first sign. The second should've been it was empty. The third: his card machine business.

I know what you're thinking. That sounds quite cool! You know I love a creative, an entrepreneur. Someone who backs themselves. What I haven't told you is that it wasn't his business. He just worked there. We spend a good hour discussing the card machine, because I innocently, if not naively, asked, "Oh? Card machine's - what's that like?"

If you require machine advice, please, ask me.

Then, he's up and he's off.

"Let's go to the next place."

Rule 1: never go to a second location.

We walk to a pub. It's cute and on Carnaby Street. It's also packed with sweaty men screaming about Liverpoooooooool!

"I'm going to the toilet quick." he says in his American accent.

"Cool, I'll get drinks?"

"I'll have two pints." Right. Ok.

The American accent is a necessary point, because he's from Surrey. Born and bred. Absolutely no connection to American whatsoever.

Ok, that's a bit of a lie. He did spend two months there. A whole two months. He's just method acting? Probably, maybe?

I'm halfway through my wine, talking about my friend Eleanor who I love, when he cuts me off. You should know he asked about my friends.

"Can we talk about something... significant?"

Here we go again.

I'll bite.

"Like what?"

"Like... I don't know. Pick something."

Was I a jester dancing for her king? When should I put the clown hat on?

"Ok. So how do you feel about the universe?"

He ignores me. Gets up.

"Oh... are we off?"

"Yeh. I've finished my drink." He notices mine isn't done. "Drink yours, we're late."

I should've asked what we were late to, given he was winging the date on a hope and a prayer. Instead, I drink up. I needed to head home soon, anyway, it was 9:45. It couldn’t get worse anyway, right?

"If you'd worn trainers with that outfit, you'd be perfect."

Here we go again. When would men stop commenting on my style? This was actually a good outfit, too: leather flares, boots, lacey bodysuit, and gray sleeveless cardigan. Trust me on this.

"Right well I wore heels because I'm not eighteen?"

"But that would've been hotter."

"So you like children?"

"Don't be stupid."

"You like women that infantilise themselves?"

He ignores me. Goes mute. Was he on speaking strike? Should I mime? (Rough foreshadowing).

In his defence, when we walk up to the front of an underground jazz club's secret door and the bouncer nods him and I in, it is very attractive. I can feel the people queuing burning glares in my head, and I love it. There's a spring in my step. I like him again.

"Let's sit by the music? Better view?"

I smile, proper now, and nod. This is exciting. I love places like this; uncommon, interesting, unique clientele. We sit as a man who looks like Rory Charles Graham begins to play the cello.

"Here," Tom says, showing me his phone.

In a very on-brand, typical man way, we are going through his photo app. I'm seeing pictures of his trip to St. Moritz. This has come about because I told him I loved photography. Importantly, I am nice.

"These are really beautiful." I ohh and ahh at every single one.

"Yeh it was an insane experience."

Really. Skiing? Insane? Revolutionary...

"Here-" I say, "let me show you when I was in..."

"Wait."

I pause. Look at him questioningly. He waves over a waitress. "Negroni, please."

Oh. No honestly I didn't want one!

"So... anyway," I begin again, tilting my phone toward him.

"Can you shut up?"

Huh?

I am in shock, naturally. My phone is still showing pictures of Osaka. I frown.

"What do you mean?" Dates are for talking, are they not?

"Just shut up so we can hear the music. We'll talk after."

Oh, fuck no. I get up and head to the toilet. Sit down for a moment. Or ten. Collecting myself. I shoot off a bunch of texts, rapid fire, so that when I go back out my phone goes off repeatedly.

Then, I stare myself in the eye in the mirror under the bathrooms dim lights. Am I overreacting? He seems alright...

I decide to let it go, but go home still. It gives him another shot at chivalry. I am nothing if not kind.

When I get back out, he has another negroni. Guess who still doesn't have another drink... Not that it's his job to ask if I want one, but the thought would be nice?

"I'm gonna head," I say.

"Wait for me to finish my drink?" he asks, I nod.

We go outside.

"Thank you-" I begin.

"Yeh, no, super nice meeting you. I'd like to see you again."

"Yeh-" I smile, "Sure.

Do you mind getting a taxi home with me? It's quite late and I'm worried about the journey because I've been drinking... I'm happy to pay for your uber."

"No."

What.

"What?"

"I said, 'no'."

"Right... why?"

"I can't be bothered. Get a taxi yourself." He shows me his screen, "I've booked mine."

Great. OK. That's fine.

But, no, he continues: "if you head to the street you'll probably catch a cab."

His taxi arrives, and oddly, I'm grateful. I know whose number is going straight into my archives...

---

I am well and truly spitting drunk.

I walk the wrong way to the tube twice, then head down the exit route instead of the path to Piccadilly. In my defence, they looked super similar with my eyes all blurry like that.

And, you know what? It's hilarious. Everything he does is funny, and he's totally sweet. We're bent over doubled laughing and I'm about 4 minutes away from missing the last train home. By all intents and purposes, I should've been kidnapped.

I suppose a big part of my survival is that he should've been 6 foot 2. A man of that height probably would be able to abduct me (so you think I'm skinnnyyyyyy). Luckily, he lied about his height.

Let me take you back!

I'm on the train to London Bridge texting my friend Henry. If you're reading this, hi Henry, this is your debut.

I dont want to goooooo

well, at least you look nice?

but im so tired

I give him the recap and the classic name & place in case I go missing. A right of passage to dates for any woman. Dark times, man.

I text Henry again when we arrive at the pub. It takes me over 45 minutes to send this, because I'm certain my date, Tom, has no idea what's going on.

I walk out the tube and can't find him. Round the back, he says. What, like, just head down this dark alley? No thanks. I call him, knowing I'd get lost trying to find the dark alley anyway.

"Yeh so, can you just come to me? I don't know this area well."

"Neither."

I pause. Henry pauses too. So you've picked someone not English again? he texts. Classic me - but no - he is English, just not London. That's now two lies (they're really stacking up). His second was that, when I eventually found Tom, I was staring him dead in the eye - because he's about 5'6. He's also wearing white running shoes with black skinny jeans (ick) and uses them to run away from me. He heads to the pub like we're late for our personal invite to tea with the King, and I have to jog to keep up.

"Are we training for a marathon?"

"I've actually done a marathon!" He says, four steps ahead. This isn't an idiom, he's literally that far in front of me. He has to shout over his shoulder.

"If I'd known I was going for a jog I wouldn't have worn boots!"

He doesn't get it.

Luckily, he has to stop for the traffic light (notably there is no traffic, but thank god he slowed down). I catch my breath.

"Jesus, who's chasing us?"

"Someone's chasing us?"

Wow. Tough crowd.

And he's off again.

"When did you start the race? 6 o'clock this morning?"

He doesn't hear me, and frankly, my jokes to get him to stop running are pretty dead. Maybe he's actually trying to get away... Am I a catfish? Was I chasing him?

Thank god, we arrive.

Naturally, over text, Henry is in bits. You have SHOCKING taste in men.

... Yeah, fair actually.

We then proceed to lap the pub ten times (not exaggerating) because he hasn't actually booked. So... ummm... WHY DID WE RUN? I may never know. Kind of want to do a marathon now, though. I feel I am fit enough. Is this runners high?

Then, after we finally get a seat, it turns out the waitress has been following us around, too, like a weird thrupple.

"You didn't pay." She says. Awkward.

"Shit, yeh, Sophie do you mind?" I do mind, but he proceeds to layer me up with all his wordly possessions. I am a glorified coathanger. I wouldn't be surprised if people starting coming over, leaving their coats and bottles on me, mistaking me for a table. After he pays, I carry on carrying. Once I finally get a drink, I drink it in record time - can you understand why I was so drunk now?

Tom is in total bits. "Corgi's aren't hunting dogs!"

I pause, doubting myself.

Its hard to focus when Irish music is playing through All Points East level speakers right in your ear. Irish songs, back to back, for over an hour.

He has already told me I'm totally wrong about a lot of things: like me saying that stocks can be traded on the stockmarket, that Alphabet owns Apple, and that Bill Nighy doesn't always just 'play himself' in films, so I take the time to make sure I'm right.

No, I'm definitely right. As the descendant of dog breeders, it would be embarrassing if I wasn't.

"Yes they are?"

Now he's really in stitches. I give up. "I'm going to the toilet."

Unfortunately, the toilet has no wifi.

"Hi I'm back!" I say. "Shall I get another bottle?" Look. It was all I could think of on short notice. The bar has wifi. Sadly Henry's gone to bed, and now that I’ve stood up for a while, the alcohol has gone straight to my head.

I go to the bar and actually just get another bottle. Don’t even use the opportunity alone wisely. Smart, Sophie.

"I've got to head soon, my mum is fuming and thought I died." This, actually, is true. The lack of wifi made her think I was gone from this world.

He is, rightfully, a bit confused. "You got another bottle though?"

I glance down at it. I had forgotten. "Oh."

"Yeh..."

"Well, let's drink it fast then!" And I do. We do. It's quite a sight, really, two strangers of equal height sinking a bottle of Pouilly-Fumé (my favourite, too, what a waste).

"Please don't kill me!" I say through my tears.

They aren't tears from fear, but because I'm laughing so hard.

"I genuinely have no idea where I am. How do you get t-to, to London Bank? No- Bridge!"

We're doubled over, and he's looking more attractive by the second. We got the wrong train twice. I held his (really quite little) hand in mine as we ran for Platform 10. Or was it 11?

Luckily, he was a nice guy (in that he didn't kill me), just a bit of a fibber. Like Lord Farquaad. Lovely, beautiful curly hair, too.

Upsettingly, he does give me the look.

All the ladies know this look. For the men, I will explain.

Picture this:

My train is arriving, the lady is saying the eleven-twenty-three train on platform ten for the and we are standing up from the bench.

"This is me! Phew, glad I didn't miss it."

And he doesn't say anything. Just looks at me, blankly, eyes wide open. He is edgy, slowly, but noticably, closer. He does a little chuckle to acknowledge he heard me. He does the lean.

Fuck. No.

I am on that train faster than you can say goodbye. Actually, I don't even say goodbye, now I think of it. When I look out the window to wave, he, too, has disappeared. And they say chivalry is dead?

Days later he texts asking how things are. I say

not great, honestly. My dad's been hospitalised

oh no, sorry to hear. Want to watch a film with me?

Do you hear that? It's the sound of the final nail going in his coffin.