Day 24

The door jangles like Christmas and you are engrossed in a large-print wordsearch. You have an entire puzzle book. I remember sitting with my grandma, finding the letters together, using a red pen. You wear a t-shirt, glasses slipping down your nose. Fairylights are sellotaped around the counter. I present my jacket in a damp lump, you say it’s nothing a dry clean won’t sort out. And you say confidence, enthusiasm and a smile will guarantee success. What I like best about you is your flashy jewellery and that you want to speak to me as much as me you.

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Day 9

There is nothing notable about you until I see how immense your eyes are behind your glasses. I tell you a funny story to see if it really is funny. And sure enough, you laugh. I concentrate on how you structure your response, the anecdote you choose in reply, so I can remember it later. It’s a way to lessen the impact of the facts. Through the repetition of these words, I can get used to the situation. As I listen to our exchange, I think, Yes, this is something I can say, this is something I can live through.

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Day 3

I like a man waiting for me. I like to be late, just a little, to add a bit more enjoyment to the encounter. Your glasses were angled, your teeth aligned. And that emphatic way you spoke with both hands as you explained what it was you wanted from me then. I filled in my details, careful not to smudge, whilst you read your papers, fiddled with your collar. Around us, glasses chinked, a large television screen showed heavy-set rugby players grappling with each other’s bodies and the jukebox played songs by Kylie Minogue. You didn’t check your watch once.

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