So when I left off last time I was in the midst of setting up a date with the cool Graffiti Artist. We arranged to meet on the Thursday evening for a drink but be ended up canceling on me at the last–minute. As his excuse of a family matter coming up seemed genuine enough I gave him the benefit of the doubt and we agreed to re-schedule to the following Sunday.
We continued texting the next couple of days and all seemed fine, we were going to meet on Sunday and he would let me know the exact details of where and when we would meet. So when it got to Saturday evening and I still didn’t know where or when I wasn’t too worried – we’d had such good banter that I didn’t think he’d back out on meeting…. How wrong was I!
Sunday morning arrived and my phone had gone silent – no call, no text, no nothing! To say I was a little disappointed is an understatement. But as we’d not specified a time I wasn’t quite giving up hope, well not until midday when my flatmate saw my sorrowful countenance and suggested I come ice-skating with her. Well I have to be honest here, I did consider wallowing in a pool of self-pity and loathing for the rest of that afternoon, but then I just thought, come on! Pull yourself together girl, you didn’t even meet the guy and you’re getting al upset? Actually it was my flatmate who said all that but I did manage to see through the haze of self-pity long enough to agree that she that she might have a point. So after waiting another 30 minutes for fate to intervene in the shape of Graffiti Boy texting last minute plans, I agreed to forego an afternoon of Murder She Wrote and Columbo re-runs whilst eating pints of Haagen Daz in and effort to fill the empty void that is ‘being stood up’ (okay so technically I wasn’t ‘stood up’ as he never told me where I was to stand up waiting, but you get my drift) and I agreed take my sorry ass to the ice rink.
Once we got to the ice rink I started having fun and forgot all about that guy who doodles on walls for a living – I’m sure there’s something slightly illegal about that kind of hobby anyhow… The point is it was good to be out with my flatmate just enjoying ourselves with no guys involved at all! There were quite a few people there, mostly families, teenagers and the odd couple out on a date, there were even a few cute guys, including a man with a young boy with him, but no wife or girlfriend from what I could see at least. He gave me a smile as I skated past and I smiled back in a friendly rather than flirtatious way. Come to think of it, he was pretty damned cute – a bit like a young Larry Fishbourne with the stubbly beard look.
My flatmate and I skated on and I was really beginning to feel like I was 15 again and thought it a great idea to throw in a few tricks, like my famous, skid to a halt by doing a semi-circle with my feet trick… the well renowned ‘teapot’ where one crouches down over one knee with the other leg straight in front of you, I even managed to do some ‘speed around the rink in an aerodynamic crouch’ maneuvers. Of course I’m sure people were in awe of my raw, undeveloped talent, in fact I think it was this which may have drawn an admiring glance from my Lawrence Fishbourne lookie-likey.
With my confidence now built up to an even greater level of heightened unreality, I now decided it was time to skate backwards! Now I don’t exactly know how to do this but I’ve seen it on Dancing on Ice and a mate of mine once tried to show me after she’d had a few lessons so I thought it can’t be that difficult… I asked my flatmate to hold onto my hands and just skate straight forward whilst I stood facing her and gently glided backwards in an elegant Torvil and Deanesque manner. Okay so it was more Orville the duck than Torvil, but surely I get a 3.4 for effort if not artistic flair? No? Well I tried at least. And it paid off!
No sooner had I started my backwards floundering than I saw Larry F skate by again with his boy, stifling a laugh at my efforts and exclaiming that he couldn’t watch for fear that he’d fall over too. It was, I have to say, a moment! Nothing grand or big, but it was something, a momentary click. A couple of circuits later – this time facing the right way around and my skating admirer seemed to have disappeared. Ah well, it was fun anyhow and I was glad to have left the house and was probably an ounce or two lighter for not having eaten ice cream all day instead. Eventually we decided to call it a day and came off the rink to exchange our skates back for our shoes. I was just unfastening my boots when I looked up and saw him there, my Larry Fishbourne lookie-likey, eating fries with his boy. He caught my eye and waved me over, given that he was with his son our exchange was pretty brief and to the point but it went something like this…” Hi what’s your name? Nice too meet you. Can I take your number? Ok, see you later.” Done!
I have to say that this is the fastest, most efficient exchange of numbers I have ever made in my life! And what a turnaround – from a day that started so darkly with disappointment and rejection, to an afternoon of opportunity and fresh possibilities. Ok, ok so I’m getting a little overly flowery and romantic but you see where I’m coming from. I went home a happy and optimistic woman again.
And that’s just the beginning of it, a few hours later and we were exchanging texts and talking on the phone. It turned out that neither of us were doing anything that evening and so we decided to meet up for a drink at a pub near the ice rink. We met in the upstairs area of a traditional old pub and chatted the whole night. He was very gentlemanly, paying for drinks and was genuinely a really good laugh. The only note of caution on this would be his age. Now as I’d met him when he was out with his eight-year-old son, I’d assumed he was probably in his early thirties – in fact my flatmate had estimated him to be in is forties. But it turns out we were both wrong, he’s 27 – a full ten years my junior!!! Now I don’t object to younger men, in fact I’ll go as far as to admit that I find younger men more attractive, I mean other than the probable lack of maturity and the inability to commit (other than adulterously), what’s not to like?
This revelation, along with his profession of being a sports agent, all made me a tad wary to say the least, but on the upside, there was definitely a spark there. There wasn’t any improper behaviour, he didn’t try anything on with me and as I say, he was a gentleman, but there was the odd moment, the odd look now and then that said what was barely hidden under the surface of polite reserve.
After a few drinks we called it an evening and he walked me to the station, we kissed, one of those small kisses that is more than a peck but not quite a frenchie either. All very proper and grown up. We’ve agreed to meet up again and maybe go to see a film next time, and I have to admit I’m feeling more than a little hopeful about this one – could this be my Jerry McGuire? – well I kind of hope not, I’m really not a fan of Tom Cruise, but I do like Lawrence Fishbourne!