Getting Hitched Fiction - First Date

By Nadine Cranenburgh

"Damn, that’s all I need."

Black goo oozed from my tear duct as I fumbled for a cotton bud through a haze of misapplied mascara. I put my eyeliner pencil away unused. I have many talents, but make-up isn’t one of them.

Time check. Six o’clock. Too early, too keen. Just enough time to try on another couple of outfits before settling on exactly the same clothes that I had put on in the first place.

Six-thirty. Time to kiss the television goodbye and tell the fridge not to wait up.

As the train rattled towards the rendezvous point, my doubts multiplied. I wasn’t even sure I could remember my date’s face, let alone his name. I was a painted offering to the unknown. I felt stupid even thinking that – perhaps make-up poisoning was to blame.

"Train now arriving at Town Hall, passengers are reminded to stay behind the yellow line."

The stationmaster’s heavily-accented announcement got me thinking – there really should be some sort of protective barrier for dates-turned-bad. A nice portable yellow line to hide inside would be very useful if the my companion for the evening turned out to be some sort of religious nut, or worse...

"Come on, be positive," I thought, bravely stepping off at the station.

I joined the other preening hens in the station toilet. I watched as they fluttered around the wall mirrors – pushing the good bits out, sucking the bad bits in and glossing over the visible signs of aging. One by one they left, glancing back at their reflections. I took my turn at the mirror when a space cleared – squinting critically at my amateur make-up and disobedient hair. I decided to trust in the beautifying qualities of alcohol and dim cinema lights and left to find my date.

Seven-fifteen. I was early. For the first time in my life! I looked around for a bar, some nerve-quelling beverages would be very welcome right now. Planet Hollywood? Shooters? I spotted a bar-café and considered drinking myself into oblivion rather than face the dreaded "D" word.

I scanned the swarming cinema steps. Which one was he? I’d only seen him for a couple of minutes, this was probably going to be a waste of time.

A newspaper crackled nearby, catching my attention. A smoothly-shaven man was trying to coax a suitably impressive film session from its barren pages. The poor guy had obviously been left without any suggestions at all, no idea of how to pass the first test of the mating ritual. He looked at his watch, then surveyed the mob around him.

Oh. It was him. I gathered up what was left of my courage and pretended to wander over in a nonchalant manner.

"Mike?" My date looked up, his bemused hazel eyes were doing quite a good job of mirroring my anxiety.

"I’m Imogen."

I smiled. He smiled back.

"Is there anything you want to see?" he asked. He didn’t look terrifying at all. Quite normal, and not bad-looking.

"No, but there’s a bar over there which looked promising." I answered.

As we crossed the road and started to swap small-talk, I was glad I hadn’t run away. It’s no fun drinking alone.

*** 

© Nadine Cranenburgh, 2008

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