After a few dates, the 45yearold woman asked me over to her flat. As we sat down to dinner I realised Id walked into a situation I wasnt prepared for.
I was on my way to Poppys with a bottle of red wine and a foolish, almost boyish mood that now made me feel embarrassed.
Im fortyeight. By this age I should be a bit wiser, read between the lines, sense peoples intentions and not build castles in the air after a handful of meetings. Yet, as it turned out, George thats me is still a romantic at heart, and a fool in equal measure. Sometimes those two traits overlap.
Wed met on a dating site a month earlier. First we messaged, then we met a couple of times in cafés. I liked her. I wont pretend otherwise. She smiled warmly, listened attentively, joked without the usual interrogation lamppost questions: Do you own a flat? Wheres the ex? Any alimony? What are your retirement plans?
The early meetings were easy. We walked, drank coffee, talked about films, work, and how, at our age, dates feel less like romance and more like job interviews with a dash of hope.
She laughed. I laughed. It seemed we understood each other.
Then she said, Come over on Saturday. Well have a drink. Ill cook something.
Of course I heard something else. A man hears what he wants to hear, especially after three mental rehearsals of a cozy, quiet night with wine, kitchen conversation and perhaps a hint of something more. I even ironed my shirt myself, as if that were a silent pledge of serious intent.
I bought a bottle of red. I took my time, standing in the offlicence like a sommelier at a regional theatre. I chose one that wasnt the cheapest, but also not so pricey that Id later regret the cost when I looked at the receipt.
I pulled up to 7Beech Street at about seven. Poppy opened the door almost immediately, as if shed been waiting on the other side. She wore a dress, her hair was neatly styled, light makeup everything looking polished, perhaps a touch too polished for a just sit and chat evening.
I stepped inside and instantly felt the flat was prepared for my arrival as if a healthinspection team, the landlords mother and the buildings managing director were due any minute.
The floor shone. It really shone. I slipped my shoes off, halfguilty, as though I might leave a mark of my masculine inadequacy on the polished wood. The hallway smelled of fresh cleaning, perfume and food a lot of food.
When I entered the kitchen my jaw dropped.
On the table lay a salad, then another salad, a hot dish in a casserole, a platter of sandwiches, a selection of pastries, and a soup. A proper, fullon soup for a romantic evening.
I looked at the spread and said, Poppy, are you waiting for an army?
She laughed, a little tense.
Oh, quit it. I just wanted to feed you properly. A man should have a proper homecooked meal.
Something inside me twitched not pain, just a quiet itch. The remark seemed harmless, yet a tiny bell rang in my head.
I handed her the wine.
Here you go, I said.
She took the bottle, glanced at me and replied, Thanks. Ive got a few more.
She opened a cupboard. Inside were three bottles of wine.
Three.
I felt like the bloke who arrives at a wedding with a single flower while the venue is already booked for a hundred guests.
Whoa, I said. Are we celebrating something big?
Why not? she answered. We should have a proper chat.
The word proper stuck with me. Wed only met a handful of times, chatted online, and it was pleasant. Yet proper chat sounded as if Id been avoiding a crucial family gathering for a month.
We sat down.
She immediately started piling food onto my plate. I hadnt even asked for more wine yet.
Try this salad it has chicken. And this one has mushrooms. Ill put the hot dish on now. Want soup?
Poppy, let me
Dont be shy, sit. I enjoy looking after you.
She served as if Id trekked through a blizzard and now my survival depended on the second slice of meat. The plate quickly resembled a tiny supermarket.
I ate. Honestly, everything was tasty. Theres no point complaining about the food. Poppy knows how to cook. But I felt uneasy not because of the food, but because an invisible contract seemed to hover over the table, one I must have signed without remembering when.
She sat opposite me, poured wine for herself and for me.
So, she said, finally were not in a café, but actually talking like adults.
Indeed, I replied. Your place is cosy.
And it was. Clean, beautiful, perhaps a little too cosy as if someone had pumped extra comfort into the room.
Poppy fixed her gaze on me, not the way a woman looks at a man shes interested in, but more like an accountant staring at a ledger missing a signature.
George, Ive been thinking about us, she began.
I nodded. My fork suddenly felt heavy.
About us?
Of course. Were not kids. Were not twenty, sprinting from one date to the next.
Thats when I realised the evening had taken a turn I hadnt expected. Id hoped for light banter, a laugh, a reminiscence about a neighbour with a noisy drill. Instead it felt like a board meeting about my future.
I agree were not kids, I said cautiously. But were still just getting to know each other.
She frowned.
Thats what bothers me. What does still getting to know each other mean? At our age you need to know what you want.
I wanted to say, Id just like to finish my salad, but I didnt. Manners, I guess.
I want a proper relationship, I said. But I think things should progress gradually.
Poppy leaned back.
Gradually how? A year of café dates?
Why a year?
How else? Men always say gradually and then disappear. Show up, have a drink, leave. And the woman sits and waits.
She spoke faster, as if rehearsed, perhaps practised in front of the mirror while wiping that immaculate countertop.
George, I dont want you waiting for some undefined thing, I said. But weve only known each other for a month.
A month is enough to tell if someones the right one, she replied.
I fell silent. For her, a month was sufficient; for me, it wasnt. I suddenly felt guilty for not falling in love on schedule.
She nudged another dish toward me.
Eat while its hot, itll cool otherwise.
I took the fork mechanically and ate the meatandpotato dish while she narrated my future. It felt like being fed before a verdict.
I thought, Poppy said, we could skip the waiting. You live alone, I live alone. Our flats are fine, but my area is nicer, the commute for you is easier. Theres room for both of us.
I looked up.
Room for what?
She stared as if I were being deliberately dense.
For us, George.
I hadnt even finished my glass of wine.
You mean moving in together?
Whats so shocking about that?
She smirked.
Got it, she said. Thats clear.
Her clear wasnt about understanding; it was a thinlyveiled resentment, already draped in a coat and standing in the hallway.
George, we barely know each other.
Youve already said that.
Because it matters.
And I dont want to waste time. Im not a teenager. I want a family a normal one. A man by my side, sharing meals, solving problems together.
Those words were reasonable. I, too, didnt picture myself growing old alone with a bag of chips and the telly. I wanted warmth. But theres a gulf between I want you near me and Youll be the next man in my life from next week onwards.
I tried to soften my tone.
I get you. But a family isnt decided over dinner.
She slammed her glass down.
How else is it decided? Through endless texts? Walks? Your lets see?
I realised her your didnt just refer to me. It encompassed every bloke whod ever disappointed her an exhusband, a few site flings, the guy who promised the world and vanished. They were all invisible diners at this table, sharing her salads while I was expected to answer.
Im not them, I whispered.
And how would I know?
It was an honest, uncomfortable question.
I looked at her: beautiful, tired, composed, and clearly strained, as if she were holding a glass that was actually the last lifeline to a decent life.
I felt sorry for her.
But pity is a shaky foundation for any relationship. You can carry a suitcase on someones shoulders, but you cant live together on it.
She rose abruptly.
Ill get the soup.
George, Im full.
Just a little more.
No, thanks.
She still took the bowl.
That tiny insistence hit me harder than any talk about cohabitation. I said no, but she didnt hear it. Not because she was angry, but because her mind was already scripted. I was supposed to eat the soup, so I ate the soup.
She set the bowl before me.
Eat. Its homemade.
I stared at the soup and thought, George, you came looking for romance and ended up on a husbandaudition with a tasting menu of commitment.
It was absurdly funny, in a nervous way.
You look amused, she observed.
Just?
Is it funny?
No, just the situation is odd.
Odd? So Im odd to you?
I had to choose my words carefully.
No, youre not. Its just that weve jumped into serious talk far too fast.
She turned her face cold.
Right, you didnt come for serious talk.
I stayed quiet. Yes, I hadnt. Saying that outright would have sounded rude, though perhaps honest.
What did you come here for, George? she asked.
The question hung over the table.
There I was: a fortyeightyearold man with a past marriage, a divorce, a mortgage, a DIYrenovated kitchen, a sore back and a touch of grey in the beard, feeling like a schoolboy caught buying cigarettes at a stall.
I came to see you, I said.
No, you came to have a nice evening.
I didnt answer.
She nodded, as if shed proved a point to herself.
Exactly. I knew it.
Im not committing to a lifetogether scenario, I said. I just want a decent evening with a woman I like. Thats not a crime.
What now?
Wed keep meeting, see if we click.
I dont need a man whos constantly testing me.
Im not testing you.
Youre testing. Are I convenient? Am I fun? Do I cook? Will I stay quiet when you need me? I dont want that.
She was no longer speaking just to me. I sensed that shed rehearsed this, maybe several times in front of the mirror while polishing that spotless sink.
George, I dont want you to wait for something vague, I said. But weve only known each other a month.
A month is enough to decide if youre my person, she replied.
I fell silent again.
For her, a month was enough. For me, it wasnt. I felt guilty for not falling in love on a timetable.
She pushed another plate toward me.
Eat while its hot.
I took the fork mechanically, ate the meat and potatoes, and listened to her outline a shared future. It felt like being fed before a sentence is read.
I thought we could skip the waiting, she said. You live alone, I live alone. My flat is in a better area, your commutes easier. Theres room for both of us.
I looked up.
Room for what?
She stared, as if I were being deliberately dense.
For us, George.
I hadnt even finished my glass.
You mean moving in together?
Whats so shocking?
She smirked.
Got it. Thats clear.
Her clear wasnt understanding; it was thinlyveiled resentment, already draped in a coat and standing in the hallway.
George, we barely know each other.
Youve already said that.
Because it matters.
And I dont want to waste time. Im not a teenager. I want a family a normal one. A man by my side, sharing meals, solving problems together.
Those words were reasonable. I, too, didnt picture myself growing old alone with a bag of chips and the telly. I wanted warmth. But theres a gulf between I want you near me and Youll be the next man in my life from next week onwards.
I tried to soften my tone.
I get you. But a family isnt decided over dinner.
She slammed her glass down.
How else is it decided? Through endless texts? Walks? Your lets see?
I realised her your didnt just refer to me. It encompassed every bloke whod ever disappointed her an exhusband, a few site flings, the guy who promised the world and vanished. They were all invisible diners at this table, sharing her salads while I was expected to answer.
Im not them, I whispered.
And how would I know?
It was an honest, uncomfortable question.
I looked at her: beautiful, tired, composed, and clearly strained, as if she were holding a glass that was actually the last lifeline to a decent life.
I felt sorry for her.
But pity is a shaky foundation for any relationship. You can carry a suitcase on someones shoulders, but you cant live together on it.
She rose abruptly.
Ill get the soup.
George, Im full.
Just a little more.
No, thanks.
She still took the bowl.
That tiny insistence hit me harder than any talk about cohabitation. I said no, but she didnt hear it. Not because she was angry, but because her mind was already scripted. I was supposed to eat the soup, so I ate the soup.
She set the bowl before me.
Eat. Its homemade.
I stared at the soup and thought, George, you came looking for romance and ended up on a husbandaudition with a tasting menu of commitment.
It was absurdly funny, in a nervous way.
You look amused, she observed.
Just?
Is it funny?
No, just the situation is odd.
Odd? So Im odd to you?
I had to choose my words carefully.
No, youre not. Its just that weve jumped into serious talk far too fast.
She turned her face cold.
Right, you didnt come for serious talk.
I stayed quiet. Yes, I hadnt. Saying that outright would have sounded rude, though perhaps honest.
What did you come here for, George? she asked.
The question hung over the table.
There I was: a fortyeightyearold man with a past marriage, a divorce, a mortgage, a DIYrenovated kitchen, a sore back and a touch of grey in the beard, feeling like a schoolboy caught buying cigarettes at a stall.
I came to see you, I said.
No, you came to have a nice evening.
I didnt answer.
She nodded, as if shed proved a point to herself.
Exactly. I knew it.
Im not committing to a lifetogether scenario, I said. I just want a decent evening with a woman I like. Thats not a crime.
What now?
Wed keep meeting, see if we click.
I dont need a man whos constantly testing me.
Im not testing you.
Youre testing. Are I convenient? Am I fun? Do I cook? Will I stay quiet when you need me? I dont want that.
She was no longer speaking just to me. I sensed that shed rehearsed this, maybe several times in front of the mirror while polishing that spotless sink.
George, I dont want you to wait for something vague, I said. But weve only known each other a month.
A month is enough to decide if youre my person, she replied.
I fell silent again.
For her, a month was enough. For me, it wasnt. I felt guilty for not falling in love on a timetable.
She pushed another plate toward me.
Eat while its hot.
I took the fork mechanically, ate the meat and potatoes, and listened to her outline a shared future. It felt like being fed before a sentence is read.
I thought we could skip the waiting, she said. You live alone, I live alone. My flat is in a better area, your commutes easier. Theres room for both of us.
I looked up.
Room for what?
She stared, as if I were being deliberately dense.
For us, George.
I hadnt even finished my glass.
You mean moving in together?
Whats so shocking?
She smirked.
Got it. Thats clear.
Her clear wasnt understanding; it was thinlyveiled resentment, already draped in a coat and standing in the hallway.
George, we barely know each other.
Youve already said that.
Because it matters.
And I dont want to waste time. Im not a teenager. I want a family a normal one. A man by my side, sharing meals, solving problems together.
Those words were reasonable. I, too, didnt picture myself growing old alone with a bag of chips and the telly. I wanted warmth. But theres a gulf between I want you near me and Youll be the next man in my life from next week onwards.
I tried to soften my tone.
I get you. But a family isnt decided over dinner.
She slammed herAs I turned the key in the lock and stepped into the night, the cold air reminded me that some meals are meant only for the table, not for a shared life.
