My date last night was good. Not the traditional kind of little black dress and legs touching under the table good, no seductive sharing of strawberries dipped in chocolate good, and definitely no smouldering sexy looks or even a hint of sex good.
But really good in a different way. We sat in the kitchen where it was warm and cosy and listened to Leonard Cohen. We drank whisky while we thought about slashing our wrists, because of Leonard Cohen. And we spoke about our lives, memories brought on by the magnificent Leonard Cohen.
He cooked while I chopped the mushrooms. He didn’t know that I’d once chased my ex-husband round the kitchen table with a chopping knife. Now he does. He still trusted me with the knife.
He shouldn’t have.
He told me many stories. He showed me photographs. I may have rolled my eyes at the photographs, because sweet dear god yellow t-shirt, you just don’t show photographs on a first date.
You never ever do that.
But still; it was a cool first date.
I don’t know if it will go anywhere. He has a fuckload of baggage. I have a fuckload too.
He’s also not perfect. He’s anti-social, colour codes his clothing and there’s that thing of his virility.
And he’s a little shy and a lot vulnerable. And the timing is not great.
But he looks good in waistcoats and he cooks really well
I’m a bit sorry we never got to kiss.