morning and I’m keen not to wake anyone up. I open the door to a dark hallway. Carefully, I close the door and peek inside the living room. Ashley is lying on the sofa, asleep. Her light is still on, her God book draped across her chest. I go to leave.
‘How was your date?’ she asks, her eyes still closed.
‘Good,’ I whisper, ‘get some sleep.’
‘Did you have a nice time?’ she asks. It sounds like a loaded question.
‘Yes, thanks. I’ll see you in the morning,’ I reply.
‘You don’t have to tiptoe around me.’ She opens her eyes and looks at me.
‘I had a nice time,’ I say.
‘I’m glad,’ Ashley says.
‘Nothing happened,’ I start to say, then stop myself, suddenly realising I don’t need to justify myself.
‘Then, when you see her again, make sure it does,’ she says with a cheeky smile. I don’t know why she says it like that but somewhere inside it feels uncomfortable. I chuckle, covering as best I can. I try to form a sentence in my mind. ‘Night,’ she says. I open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out.
‘Night,’ I reply and walk out. I get to my bedroom and close the door, throwing my coat on the bed. I try to make sense of the evening. Lauren is definitely interested. She made all the moves which is strange because I’m normally on my knees when a girl finally gives me the green light. I don’t think I’ve ever had it the other way round, apart from Ashley, of course. But then she’s not like other girls. Even if she is wounded at the moment, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before she gets her mojo back. I hope so anyway.
As I replay the evening in my head, the fear begins. I start to wonder what a girl like Lauren could possibly see in me? Gorgeous, successful, on top of her game, what is it that I bring to the table? Then it hits me, my job. She’s a high flying trader type and it doesn’t do her any harm to be on the arm of someone that could potentially further her career/beef up her profile. She did ask me a lot about my job. But I guess they all did, and what better way is there to break the ice? Mark seems like a cool bloke and although he’s a little arrogant, I could see us being friends. I guess if I do end up going out with Lauren, that might be a possibility. James is still a twat, hope I don’t see too much of him. I undress and get into bed, turning out the light. Memories whip around my head, my mind focusing on the smallest of details. Lauren’s blonde hair. Mark’s cool clothes. Ashley.
‘The next station is Waterloo,’ the computer voice on the Northern Line says. I only hear this in a very distant way. The message swims around my head. I’m asleep. I had so little sleep last night, I nodded off almost as soon as I got on at Clapham Common. Now, as consciousness returns, my neck feels a little stiff. I open my eyes and quickly realise that my head is resting on the shoulder of the person sitting next to me. Ah. Problem. I carefully try to raise my head but it’s then I note that said person has their head rested on top of mine, effectively trapping me in place. Awkward. How exactly to play this? As I ponder on how to extricate myself the stations zip past and before I know it, we’re approaching Goodge Street. Nothing for it but to move my head more forcibly. The person next to me, realising what’s happening, is off me in a flash. I sit up and rub my neck. I see who’s shoulder I’ve been resting on. It’s a man of around sixty and I’m unsure if he has a permanent residence. The clues are:
1) He smells.
2) He needs a shave.
3) His fly zip is undone or jammed. I can’t say which and I’m not going to study it further.
4) Between his legs he has a ‘Bag for Life,’ which does indeed look like he’s had since he was born.
I smile, embarrassed.
‘Sorry,’ I start to say, immediately regretting engaging in conversation.
‘What yer sorry for?’ he replies.
‘Just…you know, leaning
‘How was your date?’ she asks, her eyes still closed.
‘Good,’ I whisper, ‘get some sleep.’
‘Did you have a nice time?’ she asks. It sounds like a loaded question.
‘Yes, thanks. I’ll see you in the morning,’ I reply.
‘You don’t have to tiptoe around me.’ She opens her eyes and looks at me.
‘I had a nice time,’ I say.
‘I’m glad,’ Ashley says.
‘Nothing happened,’ I start to say, then stop myself, suddenly realising I don’t need to justify myself.
‘Then, when you see her again, make sure it does,’ she says with a cheeky smile. I don’t know why she says it like that but somewhere inside it feels uncomfortable. I chuckle, covering as best I can. I try to form a sentence in my mind. ‘Night,’ she says. I open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out.
‘Night,’ I reply and walk out. I get to my bedroom and close the door, throwing my coat on the bed. I try to make sense of the evening. Lauren is definitely interested. She made all the moves which is strange because I’m normally on my knees when a girl finally gives me the green light. I don’t think I’ve ever had it the other way round, apart from Ashley, of course. But then she’s not like other girls. Even if she is wounded at the moment, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before she gets her mojo back. I hope so anyway.
As I replay the evening in my head, the fear begins. I start to wonder what a girl like Lauren could possibly see in me? Gorgeous, successful, on top of her game, what is it that I bring to the table? Then it hits me, my job. She’s a high flying trader type and it doesn’t do her any harm to be on the arm of someone that could potentially further her career/beef up her profile. She did ask me a lot about my job. But I guess they all did, and what better way is there to break the ice? Mark seems like a cool bloke and although he’s a little arrogant, I could see us being friends. I guess if I do end up going out with Lauren, that might be a possibility. James is still a twat, hope I don’t see too much of him. I undress and get into bed, turning out the light. Memories whip around my head, my mind focusing on the smallest of details. Lauren’s blonde hair. Mark’s cool clothes. Ashley.
‘The next station is Waterloo,’ the computer voice on the Northern Line says. I only hear this in a very distant way. The message swims around my head. I’m asleep. I had so little sleep last night, I nodded off almost as soon as I got on at Clapham Common. Now, as consciousness returns, my neck feels a little stiff. I open my eyes and quickly realise that my head is resting on the shoulder of the person sitting next to me. Ah. Problem. I carefully try to raise my head but it’s then I note that said person has their head rested on top of mine, effectively trapping me in place. Awkward. How exactly to play this? As I ponder on how to extricate myself the stations zip past and before I know it, we’re approaching Goodge Street. Nothing for it but to move my head more forcibly. The person next to me, realising what’s happening, is off me in a flash. I sit up and rub my neck. I see who’s shoulder I’ve been resting on. It’s a man of around sixty and I’m unsure if he has a permanent residence. The clues are:
1) He smells.
2) He needs a shave.
3) His fly zip is undone or jammed. I can’t say which and I’m not going to study it further.
4) Between his legs he has a ‘Bag for Life,’ which does indeed look like he’s had since he was born.
I smile, embarrassed.
‘Sorry,’ I start to say, immediately regretting engaging in conversation.
‘What yer sorry for?’ he replies.
‘Just…you know, leaning
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