Dateline: "The way he says, 'What you want?' makes my nether regions quiver, even though it's grammatically incorrect…"
We're collecting stories about your most entertaining dates. Send your time-stamped dating stories to firstname.lastname@example.org; don't forget to include gender and age for you and your date.
7:30 p.m. – After six months of note-passing, he-said/she-said reports, and general back-and-forth, it is finally our first date. I'm walking into town, listening to DMX to try and hype myself up.
7:48 – I'm at the cash machine, holding a tenner so I can pay for my own drinks. It's very cold and my top is see-through. I want to go home, sit in my parents' brown armchair, and watch The Good Life.
7:53 – I've paced two circuits of our very small town, and twice passed the pub where we're meant to meet.
8:01 – I stand outside the pub for the third time and swear quietly under my breath.
8:03 – I walk in thirty-three minutes late. He has the dregs of a San Miguel left, and doesn't get up to kiss me. "I thought you'd never come," he says, and my cold, dead heart melts a little bit.
8:17 – I'm really fulfilling my journalistic role by asking him a stupid amount of questions. I find out that he's Brazilian-Italian; "That's too much Latin," I say, which he laughs at. He's trying not to stare at my chest.
8:25 – His drink has been empty for a while, but he says if he gets up, I'll vanish.
8:27 – There's a pub quiz going on, which eases the tension somewhat. Most of the answers are titles of Phil Collins songs.
8:45 – He's looking at me very intently, and I feel a bit spooked, like a racehorse about to bolt. It's a weeknight, and there are about six other people in here.
9:09 – He refuses to let me buy my second drink, coming back with something approaching a trough of wine.
9:35 – A passing acquaintance ambles over to our table with the words, "So who's the new fella?" His voice echoes around the room.
9:36 – Said acquaintance drunkenly attempts to sit in my lap, as there's "room enough for both of us."
9:55 – He finally shuffles off. The Italian leans back in his chair with his arms crossed, but he is half-smiling.
10:30 – I turn down a fourth drink; he calls me "too sophisticated."
10:59 – The way he says, "What you want?" instead of "What do you want?" makes my nether regions quiver, even though it's grammatically incorrect.
11:37 – I'm quite tipsy, but I think he just told me he shot someone in Brazil. Did he just say that?
11:45 – The bartenders wearily shoo us out. It's a two-minute walk from the pub to his door — strategic date location, I think.
12:07 a.m. – I'm upstairs and we're kissing. He is very complimentary but a little incredulous; "I never thought this would happen," he keeps saying.
12:24 – I try to ask him about the whole shooting-someone-in-Brazil thing, but I think I'm ruining the mood.
3:02 – His phone is blowing up, but he's dead to the world. All the texts are from someone called Sarah. I don't feel any guilt as I read each one.
3:04 – She seems to like him a lot, and this makes me feel empathetic, but excited. I know my moral compass is a little off at this point.
3:55 – He walks me home. The streetlamps are throwing out rainbow halos. The other girl has spurred on my competitive streak, and I arrange another date.