I invited a gentleman over, but I didn’t have time to prepare. I must have gotten side-tracked. There I was, in my dressing gown, with a pile of potatoes on the table that needed peeling.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang. He had arrived. I couldn’t leave him waiting on the doorstep, so I had to open the door in my current state. It was his first visit, mind you. Quite awkward, indeed.
I fussed around, gesturing with my hands, and invited him into the living room. Then, I dashed to the bathroom to change. Five minutes later, I emerged to find him vanished. What on earth? Had he left?
I peeked into the kitchen, and there he was, peeling potatoes with a focused tilt of his head. I paused, feeling touched by the sight. It was quite endearing and sparked a warmth inside me.
He was truly a charming gentleman, there’s no denying it. A pleasant sight to behold, with trousers and a jumper perfectly matched, as if complementing one another. His socks were new—clearly noticeable. His hair was neatly styled, and he exuded a subtle, sophisticated cologne.
After a modest supper, we decided to take a walk. In the narrow hallway, we nudged each other with our shoulders, laughing. Then, he offered my coat with a regal gesture, as though I were a princess.
It felt wonderful to be the center of attention, like something delicate and precious that needed to be cherished.
As we strolled along the street, he gently supported my elbow on slight inclines. He would open doors and step aside, politely inviting me to pass.
On our way, we came across a flower kiosk. He playfully pulled me inside, telling the vendor, “Anything the lady desires.” Embarrassed, I chose a single large red rose. He smiled wryly, shook his head, and in a moment, handed me a bouquet of a dozen vibrant, fresh blooms.
We needed to buy a bottle of wine, a small cake, and some fruit. In the shop, he didn’t impose his opinions or give unsolicited advice, standing slightly aside like a queen’s page. It’s remarkable that such well-mannered men exist. Who would have thought?
That evening, I felt a wave of happiness wash over me. An extraordinary joy enveloped me in tenderness, and my heart responded with a crystalline beat.
A rare gentleman indeed, reminiscent of someone from a classic novel. Occasionally, I wondered, could he be human? Maybe just a mirage?
In a graceful dance-like move, he spun me around, looked mischievously into my eyes, and seated me on the sofa. With a swift, adept move, he set the table and brought the wine from the kitchen.
His intuition was astonishing: without asking, he knew exactly where the glasses were.
The glasses sparkled, the fruit beamed, the candles flickered. Beside me, a gallant gentleman. What more could one want? Nothing else was needed. It was the pinnacle, the celebration of happiness a woman could ever imagine.
Then his phone rang. He frowned slightly, mentioned it was his mother calling, and with a hint of irritation, stepped out into the hallway.
Driven by an instinctive curiosity, I quietly followed.
“Yes, Mum, of course, Mum.” Suddenly, his voice turned sharp: “You’re driving me mad! Get lost!” And he uttered exactly where she should go.
My goodness, an icy chill gripped me. Could he be a sadist, or was something not quite right with his mind? What should I do?
He returned with a charming smile, as though nothing had happened. I feigned disappointment and remarked about a friend whose husband was on a drinking binge, leaving her stranded with a child. They would be arriving in half an hour. Pleadingly, I asked, “Can we continue this celebration tomorrow? I’m really upset about this.”
He left. I lay awake all night, tormented by an unfamiliar feeling. In the morning, I texted: “Sorry, you’re not the right one for me. No need to explain.”
