Peachy (Pt. 1)

I’m a 29 year old guy with my own car, an ivory-coloured apartment and two nondescript potted plants outside my window. I haven’t crashed my car yet, the walls of my house are spotlessly clean and the potted plants have stayed alive for months now, despite the aggravatingly hot weather outside. I consider these small accomplishments in life; proof that I can be careful, caring and responsible. However, this does not explain why I’ve been unsuccessful in finding female company for a while and by “female company” I mean, I haven’t been on a date in months.
And it’s fucking embarrassing.
It’s not that I can’t. (Or maybe it is.) The car, the apartment, the potted plants; they symbolize a of a lot of hard work I’ve put towards finding financial stability. Years of relying on unreliable public transport, staying over in spare rooms and battling with repeatedly empty bank accounts lead to where I am now; a stable, able, capable man. Albeit, without a woman so the picture is far from perfect but I’m getting to that.
Because I am who I am and apparently not too shabby-looking (according to my co-worker who is married and is a self-proclaimed genius when it comes to life) I have allowed my friends to set me up on a blind date.
I know. You’re already disappointed. So am I. 29 years old and relying on blind dates is not something I’m proud of. Sitting inside an empty coffee shop, staring at my iced tea (coffee shops sell tea, apparently; blasphemous!) I feel a lot younger than my nearly 3 decades of existence. I also feel really stupid. I mean, look at me; sitting here alone, in my best jeans, hair combed (something I hardly bother doing anymore) waiting for some woman to turn up and hopefully be the one who makes me feel less alone than I currently do. I start to think of other ways I could be happy; maybe I could quit my job and start travelling, make a few exotic connections and see the world. Or I could buy another potted plant. I start to think of everything except my iced tea and the fact that in less than 10 minutes, I’m going to meet a strange woman who is hoping that I will live up to her expectations, just as I’m hoping she’ll live up to mine. I dislike her already.
Which is why when I look up, I choke on my drink and the table-for-two is splattered with droplets of mango-flavoured iced tea.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you!” she says, and I see her rummaging in her bag for tissues. I sit there, flummoxed, embarrassed beyond belief and wishing I could dig a deep hole and hide inside for a few centuries.
My blind date has arrived.
She looks at my bright red face, grins and calmly hands me a wad of tissues. “Sorry,” she says again, although she doesn’t have to be. “I was just as surprised too.” She looks at me again, a small smile on her face.
I quietly wipe up the mess, cough and invite her to sit down. I’ve practiced this routine in front of the mirror several times but I’m tripping over my words, I sound like a 10-year-old school girl and I hate myself. First impressions are important but this is awful. Especially since I already know her. My blind date, I mean. I know her.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes for a second and look directly at my ex-girlfriend. She’s still smiling and I can tell she’s amused. She probably thinks this is cute but it’s really not and I’m horrified.
“Hello Michael,” she says and the moment I hear my name escape her lips I realise that this is easily the worst situation I have ever found myself in. Not because of anything else but because my mind is a hive of activity and I can’t hear my own voice over the buzz of anxiety that’s currently numbing my brain.

“Hello Sam,” I say and regret it, not knowing if she still goes by her nickname anymore. She’s a Samantha but it was generally accepted that she looks nothing like a Samantha and Sam suited her. I decide to call her Sam; she still looks like one.
“This is awkward,” she says next, laughing quietly, stealing a glance at the rolled up bunch of tea-stained tissues, my face and finally resting her eyes on her own hands, bunched firmly on her lap.
She’s looking for some sort of explanation and as usual I don’t have one.
“I guess your friends didn’t know that we dated?” I stammer.
“I’ve never spoken about you at work; it’s a new place,” she says and I find myself immeadiately insulted. I’ve spoken about her plenty; in fact my entire office knows of her even though we’ve been seperated for nearly a year and two months now. Not that I’ve kept count. Just sayin’.
She continues, “My friend Vishawi, she’s the one who organized this. It’s a little awkward, I know,” she laughs again.