Just a "What if..?" rambling really. Another showcase for my paranoia.
In the end I just went up to her and asked if she would read my short stories and give me her opinion, was it worth me trying to get them published? She agreed and that opened up a door in the wall that had built up between us. The following day, she came to me instead of me moping about waiting for her. She was enthusiastic about my small portfolio of work, and said I ought to try and get someone interested in publishing them. I said that I was only writing them for me, but if she thought that others may be interested, perhaps I might see what I could do. Then I did it. The thing I had agonised over for so long. While she was still interested I asked her if she would care to go for a meal and maybe discuss things further. Of course I was only partially concerned with her thoughts on my attempts at romantic fiction; mainly I wanted to just be with her out of working hours. When she agreed it was all I could do not to leap in the air with joy. Finally I would be able to show her the other side of me, the more caring, romantic, non-laddish man who does actually care deeply about her. As long as she doesn’t ask why her, because I don’t really know. Now I just want to make it work between us.
I stopped outside her house and the doubts began to assail me once more. It was all I could do to get out of the car. As I walked up to her front door I’d almost convinced myself that she hadn’t meant it, or if she had meant it then, she’d changed her mind since. I rang the doorbell, fearing the worst. She opened the door and gave me the biggest smile ever. I was astounded; she was genuinely pleased to see me. I waited in the hall as she collected her bits and pieces and started to worry again. There are times when my imagination is a curse and not a benefit. Would she like where I was planning to take her? Would I be able to afford this? I shuffled uncomfortably until she appeared behind me. I opened the door for her then waited until she’d locked it before showing her to the car, opening the passenger door for her before going to the drivers side. She smiled again as I got in. I wondered whether I was going overboard on the gallantry and she was laughing at me. I looked across at her as she said I appeared different. I shrugged and said I was just better dressed. I made up my mind to accept things at face value. If she was going to make fun of me later, I’d worry about it then.
I kept this up for all of twenty minutes, the length of the journey to the restaurant. As we were seated I realised that I had used up almost all of my small talk, what could I say to her for the rest of the evening? She seemed to sense my discomfort and took over; leading the conversation back to what had been my original suggestion, my short stories. Relieved, I started to tell her of the idea behind each story, what problems I had encountered, things like that. She was fairly interested and asked me if I based the female characters on anyone in particular. I edged around the truth saying that a couple were based on real incidents, not wanting to tell her that at least one of the girls was supposed to be her, but I think she guessed the truth. By now she was really getting involved in how I constructed a story, and began to suggest scenarios I could use. I asked her why she didn’t try to write herself. She said she didn’t know how. I said it was easy, you just wrote what was here, and touched her gently above her heart. She looked down at my finger as it rested above her breast. I suddenly realised what I was doing and pulled it away. I’ve stuffed it all up, I thought. However she smiled and carried on eating and talking as if I’d done nothing wrong, but it took me another five minutes to get back into the conversation properly.
After that things ran fairly well. We started to talk about things entirely unrelated to writing. Things everyone talks about, the weather, where you are going on your holidays, stuff like that. We even talked about the time in the deep, dark past when we both worked on a local market at weekends, something neither of us spoke much about before. By the end of the meal I felt like part of a normal couple, someone with a girlfriend, for the first time in many years.
As I drove her home, once again the dreaded imagination kicked in. Should I try to kiss her? That would surely ruin things if she wasn’t interested. And if I did nothing at all, would she be disappointed? What was she expecting? I pulled up outside her house once more, now I would find out. I’m not going to try to kiss her, I thought, it’s too early in the relationship. Especially as I was only supposed to be asking her opinion on some writing. I opened the car door for her, and helped her out. Then, miracle of miracles, she asked me if I wanted to come in for a coffee. My imagination hadn’t been prepared for that one. What did it mean? I clamped down on that thought, what it means is she’s offering you a coffee, dumbo. I accepted and followed her in. While I was waiting for the drink I looked around the room. It was nicely furnished, but with no clue as to the owner, no videos, no books, no magazines. So, no help. She came in with the coffee and we continued our previous conversation. As I finished my drink I looked up at the clock and decided for propriety’s sake I should leave, and said so. She looked almost disappointed. As I turned to say goodnight at the door, she kissed me gently on the cheek and thanked me for a wonderful evening. Somewhat taken aback, I thanked her for putting up with me for the evening. Then she did it, she asked me if I was doing anything next week, would I be interested in going out with her again? I must have looked shocked, because she started to retract the offer. Quickly I said I wasn’t doing anything and I’d be glad to take her out again. She replied she was offering to take me out. I shrugged, and said that was all right, I wasn’t proud. She laughed and we made a date for the next Saturday evening. As I drove off I was smiling so much I thought the top of my head was going to come off, it had gone so much better than I had hoped, and it might get better yet. I ignored the pessimistic rumblings at the back of my cursed imagination and decided to just go with what I had so far. And what did I have? Just the best evening of my life so far! And next week could be better.
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