When dating isn’t harmonious

“Shall I play my song for you?”

“Erm, yeah I suppose that’d be… fun.”

He turns around and I immediately take the moment to wonder how I ended up in the most pretentious and cringeworthy moment of my dating life thus far. Oh yes, I’m on a date with a musician, that’s why.

We begin the night at The Three Johns, a popular hangout for twentysomethings. The ceilings are high, the bar staff are attractive and the drinks are that annoying balance between expensive yet just about affordable.

This is our second date, the first being two days ago and up there in the best first dates I’ve ever had. I definitely jumped the gun by suggesting a second meet up so soon after. I was in a bold mood.

His name is Luke and he’s like a puzzle piece from a completely different jigsaw to me. He likes Indie music, I like grime. He’s wearing a fur coat, a puffa jacket is wearing me. He keeps banging on about Bowie and I quietly tell him I’ve never listened to a single song of his. We may have very little in common but his jawline is motivation to stay.

Before long the booze catches up and we lose the natural trepidation that comes with close intimate time spent alongside someone you’ve just met. His streams of compliments are mixing amazingly with the three glasses of wine I downed, and I quietly pondered what we would look like in a couple’s selfie.

Time goes ridiculously fast and before we know it he has to confront that God awful finale to a date: do I ask her back?

“I don’t suppose you would want to smoke a joint back at mine?”

It’s a Shakespearean sonnet in modern dating terms; he is courting me in the only way twenty-one year old men know how.

“Sure, I’d like that.”

As we go back to his I look to the floor and take in the mattress on the floor and the scraps of paper on the wall.

“Oh I really love writing my ideas and putting them up so I can visualise them.”

After a few kisses his words begin to sink in. If this were an episode of Sex and the City I would be snickering with laugher. I soon get an uber home and text my flatmate: don’t think I’m dating a musician again.

Image credit: Aubrey Morandarte

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