The night before: My phone beeped, proudly announcing a new text message. Thinking it would be from my date-to-be confirming details. It wasn't. It was from Quiet Boy - "Thirty, I miss you." Four words I had never thought I would hear from him. Coldly and quickly I responded - "I think it's a case of too little, too late".
That afternoon: I didn't want to do too much pre-date-internet-scrouring, just enough to make sure he wasn't a and that he could spell... The last person he had mentioned in a Facebook post was directed towards an ex-lover of mine - The One That Got Away.
I couldn't breathe.
The signs were obvious, I shouldn't meet this man.
Though with an hour before we were due to meet, I thought it too rude too cancel, but I was shaking. I had a peppermint tea and hid in the staff room for ten minutes until I felt calmer. Two coffees and a G&T, I felt even more calm, to the point of cocky.
The drinks were good, the pub was nice, the conversation flowed. After a couple of drinks though, I started to feel uncomfortable, not with the date but I was completely overwhelmed with both Quiet Boy and The One That Got Away taking up valuable space in the forefront of my mind.
My date said he was enjoying my company and we should perhaps stay for another. I was flattered, and after two more drinks, drunk.
The alcohol was helping, I felt better, I felt more in control, though ironically I was less in control.
I asked PTO if we would see each other again, he said "sure". I needed to see him sober, I felt like I was in a daydream. We'll see each other again, I can finish this drink and leave with some dignity. Although when those two drinks finished, I said I was too tipsy to have anything more to drink. He suggested getting some food. We did, which only encouraged more drinking.
I should have been pushy, all I wanted to do was go home yet I had forgotten how to be demonstratively assertive. At this point, I was completely pissed. I was repeating myself and found it difficult to not have a idiotic gaze on my face, and of course, had to relieve my bladder every fifteen minutes.
We kissed outside the pub, and as he walked me to the station. All I could think was would The One That Got Away be jealous? The deranged thoughts of a drunkard..
Luckily, the next morning, I received a message from PTO, saying that as delightful as my company was (after that much to drink it certainly couldn't have been), he didn't 'feel' it. What a fucking relief. Although I think I was still intoxicated, as I didn't feel slightly rejected for at least another day.
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