My Date Wouldn't Stop Narrating Everything I Did
Fiction & entertainment
The first joke was good. That was the problem.
Outside a restaurant in Fremantle, a man was studying the menu as though the salad had personally threatened him. Owen leaned towards me and murmured, “The hungry male searches for a meal without leaves.”
I laughed. He smiled. We were both in our forties and, for once, my first date seemed likely to involve someone funny who also listened.
Then I picked up the wine list.
“The female selects her evening drink.”
Fine. A second joke. Harmless.
The bread arrived.
“She reaches for food, securing her share before the competition.”
Mate. I was just having a roll.
Dinner acquired a running commentary
Owen asked about my work restoring old buildings. I began describing a painted ceiling.
“She tends carefully to her surroundings.”
“It's a heritage building, Owen. I'm not nesting.”
He laughed. I hoped we'd finished. We had apparently only finished the first episode.
He narrated the pepper, the empty plates and a couple walking towards the toilets. He was actually good at the voice, which made it harder. I couldn't even interrupt with the useful news that the impression was shit.
Occasionally he spoke normally. Those moments were lovely. He asked thoughtful questions, remembered things I'd told him and laughed at my stories.
Then somebody moved a chair and we were back in the wilderness.
I still fancied him. I just wanted five uninterrupted minutes with the man underneath the commentary.
I asked him to use his own voice
After dinner we walked towards the water. Owen put his hands in his pockets. I was considering taking his arm.
“The pair approach the shore, where the next stage of courtship may...”
“Owen.”
He stopped.
“Too much?”
“We've covered dinner, migration and the pepper grinder. I'd quite like to talk to you now.”
He winced, then laughed in his ordinary voice.
“I get nervous. You laughed at the first one.”
“I did. I didn't commission a series.”
“Fair.”
We sat on a bench. For a moment neither of us said anything. Water moved against the edge. Someone nearby struggled with a packet of chips.
Owen looked towards the noise, then back at me.
“That was a very difficult opportunity to leave alone.”
I laughed properly.
“You can be funny. Just leave me room to answer.”
The kissing needed no explanation
He told me about a sound-recording job ruined by a director's stomach rumbling. I told him about a shopping list we'd found behind an old panel.
“What was on it?” he asked.
Nobody ever asked that. They usually made a ghost joke.
“Butter, matches, peaches.”
“Decent afternoon planned.”
There he was. The man I'd enjoyed messaging. Funny without trying to announce every thought into an imaginary microphone.
When we walked back to my car, he offered his hand. I took it.
At the car I kissed him. He smiled against my mouth, and I kissed him again because the improvement in the evening deserved recognition.
Then he inhaled as though about to speak.
I raised an eyebrow.
“I was going to ask if you'd like another date.”
“Yes.”
“Same time next week?”
“Lovely. And leave the documentary crew at home.”