First Date, Almost
As yet another car speeds past, hitting the exact same rain-filled pothole and sending yet another tsunami of filthy, ice-cold rainwater over me, I hunch down inside my jacket, ‘That’s it, enough is enough. ‘
Shivering with cold and fading hope, ‘if she isn’t here in the next ten minutes…’, I pause mid-thought, listening to the voice in my head, ‘Yeah, so what are you gonna to then, punk? Have you waited sixty minutes yet, or only fifty? Well, do yah feel lucky… punk?’ Why is it always a bad Dirty Harry voice when it’s taking the piss?
I already know that I’ll still be here for a while yet. I have no idea why Sophie’s late for our first date, she sounded so happy when I invited her.
I shake my wrist, like that’ll make the time change. 9:17. Great.
She said *“Let’s meet at 8:30, that way I’ve got time to faff before work.”*
Well, mission accomplished. I’ve had plenty of time to faff. Mostly with frostbite.
I tuck my chin deeper into my collar and give a casual side-eye to the pub door.
Nothing.
Just the old bloke with the dog again, still nursing that pint of mild.
It’s like a badly-written romcom montage out here — except the music’s been swapped for slush and bus fumes.
I consider texting her, but it feels… needy. Desperate. I mean, sure, standing here like a human sponge *isn’t*, but somehow the text would tip it over.
And besides, what would I say?
> *“Hey, no worries if you’re running late, just slowly developing trench foot outside Bean & Gone. Hope you’re well!”*
Nope.
I sigh, look up, and then blink.
There. Her coat.
That ridiculous knitted hat with the pom-pom looks like a Christmas pudding.
She’s here.
‘But wait, is it her?… She normally wears really sensible clothes at work. Well, from the homage to Tom Baker’s Doctor Who, it must be her; that scarf has become a running joke in the office. I even asked her for a Jelly Baby the other week. But fluffy pompom and stripy scarf aside, she looks… well, she looks way out of my league, and I’m standing here like yesterday’s newspapers left in the rain.
She is sashaying towards me, like she’s on a runway in Paris, not a bloody ‘orrible weekday night in Blackburn.
I feel like the world has suddenly gone into slow motion. Maybe it’s the rain, or maybe it’s the way Sophie’s striding towards me like she’s about to step onto a Vogue cover.
But she’s real, and she’s here.
In the flesh.
And *sod it*, she’s smiling.
Now, a decent person would stand up straight, shake the water off their jacket, and offer a friendly greeting.
But I’m not a decent person, I’m a soggy mess of self-doubt and stubbornness, so I do the most sensible thing I can think of. I shuffle a bit, wring my jacket out dramatically, and clear my throat like I’ve been standing here in the rain for hours out of pure *enthusiasm*.
“Oi, Sophie!” I try for casual, but it comes out more like I’m hacking up something unpleasant.
She stops just short of me, takes in the state of me — drenched, miserable, half-deflated and lets out a little laugh.
I can’t help but smile at the sound. It’s like *sunshine through a storm*.
“You’ve been here long?” she asks, raising an eyebrow as if it’s just a casual inquiry, and not *evidence* that I’ve been standing here for what feels like the entire bloody year.
“Long enough,” I reply, fighting the urge to shiver. “You know, considering I’m the last person left standing outside this place, I thought I might just set up camp.”
She eyes me, looking from my soaked jacket to my almost-defeated expression, and her lips curl into a soft smile. “You look like you’ve had a rough time. Is this how you greet all your dates?”
I blink, caught off guard. “What, you mean… ‘Hello, I’m ready for a romantic evening. Please excuse my drowned rat impression.”
She chuckles again, steps a bit closer — **close enough that I catch the faintest hint of her perfume.** I don’t even know what it is, but it’s *warm*, like fresh coffee and cinnamon buns. And that’s probably a terrible metaphor because I’m half-drowned and freezing, but you get the idea.
“Well”, Sophie purrs as she takes a step back, “how do I scrub up?”.
“You’re…”, suddenly I don’t know how to answer, too confident and I’ll blow it, too off the cuff and she’ll think I don’t care, too flattering and she’ll think I’m a creep. I stare at the vision before me, drinking in her classy, yet more than a little saucy outfit, and something glitters. My gaze shoots up to see it… landing on her cleavage, exactly as she giggles, “I’m up here, big boy” pointing to her face.
Flushing pillar-box red behind my blue lips, I lunge for the handle of the door, missing it by ‘that much’, “Erm.. yes.. of course you are. Sorry Sophie”.
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She smiles at me like I’m a lost puppy that’s just been given a bone.
I swear, she’s got this whole “I’m charming without even trying” thing down to an art form. And now I’m just a wet mess in front of her.
“Don’t worry,” she says softly, her voice taking a warmer tone. “I’ve had worse first dates.”
I blink, confused, and my brain tries to catch up with what just came out of her mouth. “Worse? How? Like, you’ve met people who were actually worse than a guy who looks like he’s just been pulled out of a flooded canal?”
She laughs again, a soft, amused sound. “Oh, definitely.”
I pause, still half-soaked but now a little intrigued. “Well, if you ever fancy swapping war stories, I’m all ears.”
She tilts her head with a thoughtful look, then shrugs. “Maybe another time.” She glances at the door, then back at me. “Shall we go in? I’m freezing, and I can’t have you looking like a drowned rat for much longer.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
I reach for the door handle — grasp it firmly this time, like I’m taking control of the situation — and hold it open for her, doing my best to look smooth.
Somehow, I fail at looking smooth.
She steps inside, and I follow, still feeling a little dazed, like I’m in some alternate reality where I’m *almost* competent but mostly just bumbling along.
But she’s here. And maybe — just maybe — this could turn into something less disastrous.
We saunter casually up to the bar and I turn to take her coat, just as I touch the fabric, Sophie’s phone bursts into life with the cannon sequence from Tchaikovsky’s 1812, “Sorry Darling,” whispering an apology over her shoulder, “I really have to take this. Can you get the drinkies in? I’ll have a gin and it”
Wow, how can I not obey that voice? It’s like warm caramel pouring over me on a night in the cold rain. Turning the the barman, I order her drink and an Old Fashioned for myself. Not because I like them, I don’t even know what’s in an Old Fashioned, but the beat seems right, and I want to feel swanky.
The barman hands me Sophie’s drink with a knowing smirk, and I turn back to the most wonderful woman in the building.
And she’s gone…
I blink a few times, my brain struggling to catch up with what just happened.
Where the hell did she go?
I glance around the pub, like maybe she’s just popped into another dimension. Maybe she’ll be back.
She has to be back. Right?
The barman gives me that look again — like he’s seen this movie before — and places my Old Fashioned on the counter.
I glance at the glass, but I don’t feel very swanky. I feel like I’ve just been played in the best way possible.
I take the drink, the ice clinking inside the glass, and have a sip.
It’s… bitter. It’s not bad, but it’s not great either.
Sophie… where the hell did she go?
I look at the bar again, half-expecting her to reappear, like some grand romantic gesture that I missed somehow. Maybe she was just testing me. Or maybe…
Maybe she was just too good for me.
I sigh, pull out my phone, and tap out a message. “So… I guess that’s that then, huh?”
I don’t send it.
I just stare at it for a moment, letting the reality settle in.
As I sit there, the phone vibrating in my hand, I hear a voice again — that bloody Dirty Harry voice.
‘Feeling lucky, punk?’
Yeah. I guess I am.
But maybe not today.
Tender flash fiction. Held in a breath. Lived in moments.
— One Long Breath… Held
If this lingered with you, leave a heart or a word below. I’d love to know which part stayed with you.
