I wore white jeans, a grey t-shirt, and beige cardi. I was not dressed up. I was not making an effort. This was an easygoing casual dinner date. He rocked up in a pressed white shirt and nice jeans. He’d made a little bit of an effort. More than I had at least. But still, he told me I looked fabulous.
I told him not to bother driving as I was going to drink so he should drink. It took them a long time to make our drink order but once the margaritas started coming they didn’t stop. It didn’t occur to me in the moment that maybe brown liquor wasn’t the best idea.
Our conversation was drowned out by a raucous group of men on the far end of the upper dining room. They were so loud. Inappropriately loud. The were all at various stages of 30-something-or-other and I spent a lot of time speculating just what they were. There were in excess of a dozen of them and they didn’t look like a football team or have the shoulders to be a rowing team. “What are they?” I asked a harried waitress.
She rolled her eyes. “Bucks party. And I wish they would just leave.” Of course they were, but it just seemed too obvious. How disappointing. I was secretly hoping for chess club or lacrosse team.
After our dinner of flank steak, short ribs, mac & cheese, burnt ends, and chipotle slaw we went across the road to continue drinking. I switched to champagne. Finally we could hear what the other was saying. We talked. We talked and talked. Mostly about his work, about random things that happened in our late twenties, about ex boyfriends, girlfriends. Then it was time to go home.
Sometimes I drink too much and I lose all sense of time and place.
The next thing I knew I was in his spartan apartment, surprised it was only 11:30pm, feeling extremely sleepy. God what a party pooper I am, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep next to him. (He loaned me a pair of pyjamas - cotton striped, Calvin Klein - so I didn’t have to sleep in my clothes.)
“Did I snore?” I asked him in the morning.
“Only a tiny bit, but it was cute.”
“Uh huh, sure.”
“Do you feel like breakfast?”
“Of course. I always feel like breakfast. Carlisle Street?”
We got ourselves ready and headed out to read the Sunday papers over smashed avocado, toast, eggs, fried mushrooms, and multiple lattes. I ordered a kale smoothie to counteract last night’s damage. The only green thing I recall eating was a few green beans. It came in a ball glass jar and I instantly regretted my decision.
“What should we do next?” He asked.
“Shouldn’t I go home?”
“Do you have to?”
“I guess not … We could go for a walk?”
“Lucky for you it’s a Sunday and the banks aren’t open …” he said when I told him I really, really wanted it.
Then we went into Chapel Street Bazaar. Sometimes my favorite thing to do on these excursions is listen to other people’s conversations.
“Do we need another pot, Malcolm?”
“You can never have too many pots, Sue.”
“You really can’t have too much pot,” says G, “there’s no such thing.”
“They’re not even trying to be funny,” I say, “they’re saying it in all seriousness.”
Before we leave I rummaged through the stack of vintage Playboys. “I really am just interested in the articles. They’re very good. Oh. Remind me to come back and pick up some doilies.”
“You can never have too many doilies,” he says.
At Zucca Rossa I order the first of four bloody mary’s for the day.
When we start to get hungry we go to Ladro and order a pizza, a salad and some olives to share between us. I order another bloody mary.
“I had an accident in the bathroom,” he says returning to the table.
“Uh oh. You smell amazing.”
“The bottle of Aesop handwash kind of just exploded all over the bottom of my t-shirt. Look.”
“First world problems. At least your crotch area will smell fantastic.”
“I hope it doesn’t stain,” he inspects his t-shirt closely making a face.
Our day has been long and lazy. We’ve had far too much food already. We decide to walk all the way back to his apartment.
“What do you think of that flower?” I ask. “And that tree? It’s a …” I start naming all the trees, plants, flowers I can identify.
“How do you even know what most of these are?”
“I’ve been researching what to put in my garden.”
It’s 6pm when we get back to his apartment. He offers me a soda water (with fresh lemon - he emphasises fresh) and we turn on the TV. There’s nothing to watch and he’s not much of a TV watcher anyway. I watch Shark Tank and John McGrath inspires a conversation about Sydney guys. How when you first meet them you think “are they gay?” and then you realise “oh no, they’re just from Sydney. Of course.” Afterwards we turn it off and start listening to music.
“You’re the DJ. Play anything you want. I want to get to know you better. What are you in the mood for?”
Since we’re in St Kilda I feel it’s only appropriate to play Hunters & Collectors sprinkled with some INXS and Depeche Mode then various other songs that pop into my head.
“Are you hungry?” He asks.
I’m not but I say I am anyway.
We order Thai.
It occurs to me that i’m still wearing the white jeans I was wearing yesterday and I make the executive decision to wash my clothes. He’s thrilled because it means I’ll be sleeping over another night.
“This is turning into some AirBnB type situation,” I say.
“I don’t mind. It’s fun hanging out with you.”
He gives me pyjamas to wear and a clean tshirt.
It feels like we’ve been married for a million years.
We go to bed early because he has work the next day. I take my sleeping pills. In morning he lets me sleep in then makes me a coffee while i’m in the shower.
“I feel so bad I can’t drop you home.”
“Oh my goodness, don’t be silly!”
“What are you going to do today?”
“Probably catch the tram into the city the city, meander around.”
I pull my cardigan off the hanger he hung it on the night before, amused, and we head out the door. He drops me off on Carlisle Street. I grab a coffee and croissant before meeting up with a friend to console her on her latest break up - she left her most recent partner because he cut off use of his credit card. “Good,” I say, “Now you can start dating again. And there’s always tinder.”
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