I think of the rooftop restaurant we frequent, tucked away in a quiet courtyard in the middle of town, and their crispy sesame prawn toasts and mellow red curry, and I am sold. Being the gentleman you are, you insist on picking me up from your place, but I decline just as adamantly. I close the laptop —— the film shall have to wait for now, perhaps until later tonight —— and stand up.
My heart skips a beat, and the familiar rush of excitement runs through my body. It never gets old. I grab my keys and phone, and toss them into my bag. Your room is dark, lit up by only the soft, warm glow of the bedside lamp. I slip out of my loungewear and shimmy into something more appropriate for dinner —— ankle boots, a light coat, hoop earrings. I pat a bit of powder onto my face and dab some of my favourite perfume on, affording a quick look at myself in the full-length mirror. I am good to go.
I walk down the two flights of stairs in your flat and wander out into the mild spring night. Seven in the evening, close to eight. The sky is already dark, a late-spring twilight, the air slightly chilled. I cross the road and saunter past the bus stop towards the train station, listening to the sound of my heels on the street. The mouthwatering smell of lamb wafts out from the local kebab shop just metres away from the station as cars drive past, headlights flashing.
Mere seconds away from the agreed point of our rendezvous, I see the silhouette of a figure —— tall, dark, and handsome. In a suit. I love it when you wear suits. You look up from your phone for a brief second before catching sight of me, and the light hits your face. Your lips break into a delicious smile, and just as easily, mine does too. I melt into your arms upon reaching you, and you pull me against you, warm and strong, smelling faintly of the long commute from central London. You bury your nose into my hair, and inhale deeply.
The restaurant I was referring to above is The Thai Terrace in Guildford, Surrey.