On our first date,
she told me she prefered dogs to cats.
I told her how that that was rare. In my experience.
We strolled through the mud in search of wild parrots.
We sheltered from chilblains
beneath the beams of a 15th century tavern,
reknowned for its selection of real ales
its summer BBQ
and the fact that Dick Turpin once hid in its cellar.
Later, as we kissed goodbye at the bus stop,
I could feel a single wonky tooth
gently nudging against me
from beneath the skin of her top lip.
On our second date,
she took me for a drive in her Russian Range Rover.
She wore my coat to keep warm.
We watched the cityscape sparkle
from atop my favourite vantage point.
We sat through the first period of an ice-hockey game,
absorbed by the slapshots,
the Zamboni resurfacer and the musical interludes.
In the pub, waiting for the gravy boat to arrive,
she became concerned about whether people could
smell the dogshit on the sole of her boot from earlier.
Later, as we kissed goodbye on her door-step,
I felt that single wonky tooth again;
nudge-nudging away beneath the skin of her top lip.
On our third date,
she decided to make fresh scones for high tea.
For my benefit, blueberries were used instead of raisins.
As a result of an afternoon spent painting bedroom walls,
her forearms were flecked, here and there,
with Pollockesque stains of brilliant white emulsion.
At one point, she forgot to put the lid on the liquidiser.
As we stood smoking on the roof terrace,
watching the lights of the aeroplanes in their
holding patterns
above our heads,
I became slightly concerned that she wasn't wearing any socks.
Later, as we kissed goodbye at the railway station,
that thing with the wonky white tooth happened again.
On our fourth date,
she wore lipstick for the first time.
She told me she didn't have an appendix. Or any tonsils.
She leant me 5p for the toilet.
We sat next to each other in the theatre.
We sat next to each other on the tube ride home.
It wasn't me, it was her. She said. We never saw each other again.
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