Scott magically gets a second date following the last tragic one … and then gets the run around.

The guy from my last (disastrous) date somehow wanted seconds, and I couldn’t believe my luck. Here was a handsome guy – 5’7”, rugby build, gorgeous brown eyes and a voice that seemed to make me melt – who didn’t seem phased by the endless list of mistakes I made on our first date. For the rest of the day I had a smirk that many people were probably dying to slap off my face.

At some point every day we’d message each other in that cute, flirtatious way. I’d ask how his studies were going, and he’d ask how my day was in general (as I barely remember myself what I do at times). Attempting to (now) play it cool, I’d keep track of who sent the last text to whom; if he initiated the conversation on Thursday, I’d be the first to say hello on Friday. Most of it was small talk, with the odd bit of flirting/banter (flanter?) thrown in for good measure. It seemed too good to be true. It almost was.

During the week, there was a chance that he’d be finished his studies around the same time I’d be in the neighbourhood. We said that if he were free, we’d go for coffee or dinner before I had to go to work. No text came from him all day, and if it weren’t for me remembering that I had arranged to meet a friend for coffee around the same time anyway, I would’ve been left hanging. That was a strange one; everything worked out well as I didn’t need to cancel on my friend, but I didn’t hear from him until when I texted that night.

The bank holiday wasn’t as easy, though. As we were both busy on Friday and Saturday, Sunday was the day I hoped that we’d meet up. Instead, his hangover from Saturday’s partying made sure he wasn’t going to be leaving his house that day. All hope wasn’t lost, I thought, as Monday would be the last day, and the last chance. I’d have some work to do, then I was to catch up with a friend, but that evening I was going to be free. But on Monday, midday became one, one became three and three became five. Hours passed, and while I was still doing my own thing in the city, I heard nothing from him. Hope was now fading fast.

By about six o’clock, I sent him a light and simple message: “How are things?” The chit-chat soon started, but I was now getting tired of a week of not being able to pin him down to see him. I decided to write a message to him; cutting to the chase, I said that I presumed he was just too busy for a second date and – as an olive branch of sorts – that we could raincheck until he wasn’t as busy. As I wrote the text, I could feel the annoyance build, the annoyance that I was trying to keep at bay until then. My finger hovered over the ‘Send’ button; I was willing to call it a day after giving too many chances. My finger hit the screen and the message flew through the airwaves.

I sighed as I sat down for a moment outside a church in the city feeling pretty disheartened. I had left the evening free for him, without hearing from him. A friend had invited me to his earlier to share a bottle of wine, but I held out to see if that legendary second date would happen. I knew I hadn’t made the best impression of myself at first, so a thought flickered in my mind that I shouldn’t have expected much to come out of this situation. Still, I was a tad disheartened.

That’s when his reply popped up on my phone: “Actually, I was going to see if you wanted to go for a walk tomorrow evening!”

No. No. NOOO.

I wanted the ground to swallow me up, there and then. It was like those fables, where the person who holds onto hope for that bit longer gets what they want. Instead, I had been the one who gave up too soon. In fairness, he quickly grovelled a bit, saying that he’d understand if I wanted to leave it, and that I should just tell him to get lost. If it was reverse psychology, he got me – hook, line and sinker. Still, one final chance won’t hurt, will it?

Hold that thought – I’m off for a walk.

‘Scottie’ Illustrations by Stephen Charlick

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