the date

There’s only one thing running through my head. Like a chant. Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God oh God. I’ve almost entirely convinced myself that you are the key. To it all.

Do you see it? While you’re sitting across the table from me trying to decide what to order, do you see it? Do you see anything bubbling beneath my surface?

No, of course you don’t. I haven’t told you yet. Because you may not be the key at all. All those books on meditation tell me I have the key, that I’ve always had it. So why should I believe that you could give me any joy which I cannot find for myself?

What if I tell you, and you turn out not to be a key at all? Or what if you don’t fit? Because I’ve obviously built you up way too much in my head. Given you too much credit, dreamt of you too much. Of your stupid voice which is far from perfect but gives me goosebumps, and your long, pale fingers, your pretty face and the shock of black hair.

See what I mean?

So maybe you’re the key to everything. Maybe you’re not. But how would I know unless you get your nose out of the menu and allowed me to make the mini-speech I’ve practiced so many times while lying on my bed?

You look up from the menu and catch me staring at you. Those pretty eyes under that pretty hair. Now you’re staring at me half-nervously, half-expectantly. Like you know what I’m thinking.

It’s time for the practiced speech.

Oh God oh God oh God.