The Morning After
I woke up the next day with a sense of impending doom. Also, I was still drunk.
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” I said as I stumbled out of my room in search of coffee and my flatmate’s ear.
“How was the date?” She chirped.
“Fine, good, he was lovely and it was great. I broke The Rules and stayed out too late though.”
“And then… he kissed me goodnight and it was the worst kiss of my life.”
“Wait. It gets worse. And then, in a fit of rage and indignation about the bad kiss, I texted B.”
“NO! What did you text him?”
I scroll through my sent messages and then I find it: the single most ridiculous text message I have ever sent: “B! I have exciting news! You should call me on the off chance you’re still up.” Message sent at 2:55am.
Flatmate looks at my quizzically. “What’s the exciting news?”
“Who knows?! I was very drunk. What the hell am I going to tell him when he asks about it?”
Flatmate and I then came up with a few possible scenarios (Have you heard that Blue has reformed? Did you know that dolphins can kill sharks by ramming them with their beaks?) but I was still at a loss when my phone flashed up with a text. “Hey! I’m awake now. What’s the exciting thing?”
And then I realized that I couldn’t suddenly start being sensible and normal around B. He knows me too well.
Some backstory: When I met him, I did everything I wasn’t meant to do. I got drunk. I took him home and slept with him the first night. I texted him the next day. We saw each other again two days later. We discussed our exes. I swore. A lot. But none of it seemed to matter – we had a few great dates and things seemed to be going well. “See? Dating isn’t so hard!” I thought to myself, smugly. “How refreshing to find someone I can be honest with!”
And then I did the unthinkable: I made the man breakfast.
I could actually see the terror flicker across his face as I placed the plate of scrambled eggs in front of him. Apparently eggs aren’t just eggs – they’re the pathway to commitment and marriage and cozy Sunday afternoons reading the papers before doing a spot of antiquing.
I didn’t hear from him again for a month.
When B finally did ring, he explained (unnecessarily) that he’d freaked out because he thought we were heading towards a relationship and I explained (also, I felt, unnecessarily) that sometimes people make other people eggs not because they’re hoping for everlasting love but because they want the other person to stick around after breakfast and have sex with them again.
Since then, we’ve settled into a strange sort of friendship in which we occasionally have sex but mainly we just bemuse and infuriate each other in equal measure. The term “impulse control” has never factored.
Fuck it. I would just tell him the truth. So I rang him.
“Actually, there is no exciting news.”
“Yeah, there’s just some mildly depressing news. For me, that is. So, I went on this date last night.”
“And it was great, you know? He was lovely and funny and we got drunk and had a great time and then at the end of the night, he kissed me. And it was terrible. And I just thought to myself, you know, if B would only be NORMAL, I wouldn’t have to put myself through this rigamarole! I could just have sex with you! So, yeah. That’s my news.”
He laughed and then said one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me: “I can honestly say that I don’t know anyone else like you. And I mean that in an entirely good way.” So it would seem that I am indeed a creature unlike any other, but that creature is a drunken, deranged lunatic.
So, sorry guys. I totally fucked up on Friday and not only had a slightly non-Rules date, but I also broke ALL The Rules by saying what I said to B.
But I’m firmly back on the horse. Kiwi (whom I decided when I finally sobered up I actually do quite like and would definitely like to see again, bad kiss be damned) texted the day after the date saying he was looking forward to seeing me again (with an exclaimation mark, no less) and I waited a whole day to text him back something pleasantly non-committal. And I have a date with a posh former triathlete this evening and I am determined to keep it under two hours.
You know what they say: to err is human, especially when you’ve pickled yourself in red wine.