I invited a man over, but didn’t get a chance to prepare. I must have got caught up. There I was in my dressing gown, with a mountain of potatoes on the table that needed peeling.
Then the doorbell rang. He had arrived. I couldn’t very well leave him standing on the doorstep. So, I had to answer the door in that state. It was his first visit, after all. Quite embarrassing.
I flustered, waved my hands around, and invited him in. Then I dashed off to the bathroom to change. I came out five minutes later, and there was no sign of him. It was like magic. Could he have left?
I peeked into the kitchen, and there he was, peeling potatoes with great concentration, head tilted to the side. I paused and admired the sight, as it was quite endearing. It stirred something gentle in me.
He was a charming man, no doubt about it. Well-dressed in matching trousers and a sweater, new socks, as was obvious, a neat haircut, and the subtle aroma of exquisite men’s cologne.
After a modest dinner, we decided to take a stroll. We nudged each other playfully in the narrow hallway, laughing all the while. Then, with a grand gesture, he handed me my coat, almost like I was a princess.
It felt wonderful to be the center of attention, as if I was something delicate and precious to be cherished.
As we walked down the street, he gently supported me by the elbow on small slopes. He’d hold the door and step aside, saying, “After you.”
We came across a flower kiosk. He led me by the hand inside and told the florist, “Whatever the lady wants.” Out of modesty, I asked for a single large red rose. He gave a wry smile, shook his head, and a moment later handed me a bouquet of probably a dozen fresh, sturdy flowers.
We needed to buy a bottle of wine, a small cake, and some fruit. In the shop, he didn’t impose his opinions or offer unsolicited advice; instead, he stood back slightly, like a page attending a queen. It’s remarkable, really, that such well-mannered men exist. Who would have thought?
By evening, I felt an overwhelming happiness. Something extraordinarily joyful suddenly enveloped me, wrapping me in tenderness, while my heart echoed with a crystalline beat.
He was a rare gentleman, as if he’d stepped right out of a classic novel. Occasionally, an uneasy thought crossed my mind: was he even real? Maybe just an illusion?
With a dance-like movement, he spun me around, gazed merrily into my eyes, and seated me on the sofa. With a strong, deft motion, he set up a table and brought in the wine from the kitchen.
He exhibited remarkable intuition: without asking, he had guessed where the glasses were. The glasses sparkled, the fruit offered their smiles, and candles flickered. A gallant man beside me. What more could I want? Nothing more. It was a pinnacle, the celebration of happiness a woman could only dream of.
Then his phone buzzed. He winced slightly, saying it was his mother calling, and headed to the hallway with an annoyed expression.
Following my instincts, I discreetly trailed after him.
“Yes, Mum, of course, Mum.” And suddenly, in a sharp voice: “You’re getting on my nerves! Get lost!” followed by a few choice words about where she should go.
Goodness, it was terrifying. What if he was a sadist, or what if something was off with him mentally? What was I going to do?
He returned, all charm and smiles, as if nothing had happened. I pretended to be upset and told him my friend’s husband was on a bender. She, poor thing, had nowhere to go with her child. They were coming over in half an hour. With a pleading look, I asked, “Can we continue our evening tomorrow?”
He left. I didn’t sleep all night. My heart was tormented by an inexplicable feeling. In the morning, I texted him: “Sorry, but you didn’t appeal to me. No explanations needed.”
