London Sketch 6

It’s been so long since he last had any female interest, he can’t even remember how to dress. He’s trying to play it cool, and outwardly he thinks he’s nailed it. Inside though his stomach is tightening itself in knots. He shakes a little, stammers here and there, but there’s no denying he’s keen.

In retrospect the stripy socks were never going to work with the checked shirt, but it’s all too late now. Here they are, on the train together. first for a light lunch then a gentle stroll around a gallery. He unconsciously flexes a fist in the hope it will help him get a grip on his emotions.

Suddenly he realises he is talking too much. He’s already effortlessly squeezed Goethe and Proust quotes into general conversation, but is he coming on too strong? Does he sound pretentious? Doesn’t everyone refer to their favourite authors in general conversation? He giggles nervously, then kicks himself for sounding childish. It’s an uneasy mix of fear and joy — a combination he’s never mastered.

Normally he’s all about control, self-control that is, nothing sordid. Another giggle as he realises where his imagination was wandering. But the odd emotions inside, the fluttering, sweating, grinning, are all alien to him. Maybe he could manage one sensation at a time, in an orderly queue, but not all at once. Unable to master himself in these situations, he’s always struggled with women.

And yet here they were, looking forward to a day out together. She had asked him — he’d never have the confidence to have suggested such a thing, even if he did find her extremely attractive. She actually seemed to understand his obscure literary and philosophical references — and she hadn’t yet suggested he was an arrogant prick.

He returns his full attention to her, his gaze meets hers and she smiles indulgently, causing his stomach to tighten and another uncontrolled giggle to escape. It’s going to be a long but enjoyable day.