Anatomy of a Date (Part 1)

My heart sank a little as a slightly melancholy smile cracked my lips. Scrolling through the names and numbers in my phone, I stopped at hers. My thumb found its way to the little green button. It took her a few rings to answer.

“Hi.” I softened a little at the sound of her sweet and gentle voice. It always cuts through me, but in a good way. The pause must have been a moment too long, because she followed by inflecting my name into a question.

“Have dinner with me tonight. I’ll book a table at Barney Allen’s for 8 o’clock.” My tone now changed, laced with serpentine temptation: “There will be wine ...”

She agreed, saying it was “the least she could do”. I could hear her smiling, a rare occurrence in the short time I have known her.

“My place, 7 pm.”

I afforded myself the wriest of smiles as I put the phone down and returned to my work.


Twenty past six and I have just walked in the door. I should have left work within moments of putting the phone down. Damn (attempted) Poet’s Day! I’m back working part-time for my former boss – just helping out in light of recent events. But he can be a difficult man to fob off. Stu’s not hanging around tonight, boss; he’s got a date! I wanna get out of here now!

I flip through the mail quickly: bill, bill, bank statement, she doesn’t live here any more, OHMS (oh, shit! I can’t open it now), junk. I had my shirt off before the door snibbed shut. Striding for the bathroom, I curse that the clock has not regressed magically twenty minutes in the time it took to stalk the hall. I’m now verging on being horribly late.

Leaping into the shower, I assiduously but hastily go about washing myself down. I hurriedly went through the checklist in my mind. I shaved this morning, so that doesn’t need to happen. I think I’ll just clean my teeth, swill some Listerine and pull a comb through my hair.

Wrenching the taps off, I stepped from the shower and pulled the yellow towel around my waist. Cab! Leaping for the telephone, I dialled. I clean forgot about booking a cab, and given it’s Friday night and Melbourne’s notoriously fickle weather has decided to return, it’s probably a good idea. I book for 7.45. Returning to the bathroom, I smear my toothbrush with paste and brush.

I rinsed with a little too much Listerine. My lips and mouth now tingle. Pulling a comb through my hair, I remark to anybody who will listen that I need a haircut. Pity it’s too late to do anything about it now.



I’ve moved to the wardrobe. Some fresh underwear is required. Black trousers with … that shirt, open and my size 11 Windsor Smiths. Jacket’s on the partition. Threading my belt into my trousers, a dreadful thought overwhelms me. Cologne! I’ve no idea what she likes: something masculine or something sweeter? You can’t go wrong with the little blue bottle, Stu. In my mind, I crossed my fingers.

Now, there are two bottles of wine in the fridge: an Italian muscato and a New Zealand chardonnay. Taking two glasses from the cabinet, I quickly check the status of my spirits. Plenty of Scotch, cognac, fortified wine, and her “cocktail in a bottle” of choice, but I might need to go and buy some Grey Goose after tonight.

Flipping through my CD collection (yeah, I still have one of those!) I make a quick selection. John Coltrane, you’ve never let me down, I pray you don’t tonight. I turned the volume right down and just sat to enjoy the few moments of calm …

7.04 pm:

I thought about not rising from the couch to answer the door, (because there is no requirement to) but I snapped into action after hearing the voice of my grandmother and its clipped yet admonishing tone. Think Julie Andrews after she slides up the banister and greets the children “Michael! We are not a codfish”. Smoothing my hands on my trousers, I stood and exhaled heavily. The moment of truth …

I waited a moment so the slight echo from the recently rapped door could dissipate. It’s a dreadful moment before you open the door for the first time. I think my expectation might have exacerbated my dread I could feel rising. I needn’t have been so fretful, because what I saw, quite simply, took my breath away.

She spun around to the open door. I censored the first thought before it reached my lips. I replaced it with a low “Wow.” Taking her tenderly by the hands, I drew her inside and indulged in the sight of her. Little could have been more beautiful. Kicking the door closed, my fingers curled gently around her neck as I pulled her close and met her kiss head-on. Redolent lips painted so sweetly; a heady and alluring taste – pomegranate, unless I’m very much mistaken. Her small hands fell immediately to my hips. I permitted her to stay a moment before brushing her off as I stepped backward to the fridge. Changing the subject silently and with celerity, I reached into the crisper and retrieved the bottle of chardonnay. No further inquiry or invitation necessary. Her perfect beryl eyes thanked me in silence.

I poured two moderately generous glasses of the chardonnay. I admit to never really being a white wine drinker. It does strange things to me. My sobriety seems to slip away more readily when I drink white wine, and, incidentally, beer. There are times when I do drink it: i.e. when it is bought for me or a very hot day, but otherwise I will not. As you might have already deduced, my tastes draw me to the fuller flavours of Scotch whisky, cognac, dark rum and all manner of red wines.



Her eyes lock onto me from behind the glass. Damn girl! It sounds naff, but I honestly go weak at the knees. I hate them, and yet they are – for me – the cello in your orchestra of charms. Ordinarily, I do not like to be watched, but as long as they are your eyes, all ravenous and covetous, I permit their stay. Nervous laughter minced by a shy and slightly embarrassed smile escapes from my mouth. I’m enjoying this, are you?

The slightly stubby, small fingers of her left hand set the wine glass down on the small table wedged between the sofa and the wall. She sits, preening the cushion beside her “Come sit by me.” She must have picked up on the misgiving in my expression, because it took a second insistence, lightened by laughter, for me to comply.

She hooks her bare feet under herself and rests her right elbow on the back of the sofa. The back of a gentle finger scrapes against my jowl. I turn myself to her. Brunette tresses, loosely curled, fall to her shoulders. Her mouth tweaked into a demure smile, as though she was currently indulging in a guilty pleasure.

“So, where are we going for dinner?”

“Barney Allen’s, it’s down on Fitzroy Street. I thought about Indian, but it’s not exactly the impression I want to create.”

“Yeah; bit intense. Then?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I have A, B and C Plans.” I paused. “No, that should have been C, B and A plans.”

Her eyebrows arched as she again sipped at her glass. “I like the sound of that.”

She leaned in to kiss me fully. Moments passed and the intensity grew.

“Not too much of this.”

Sliding over me, I cursed silently as she ran her soft hand down my shirt, inserting a couple of fingers between the buttons. “Don’t be scared.”

What am I, seventeen again? Inexplicably, the mental image of Billie Piper’s Hannah Baxter and her overbite flashed in my mind’s eye. What a strange thing to put me at ease!

“I’m not scared!”

We resumed kissing.

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