Look I was not even meant to be in there. That is the part people always skip when they tell a night like this, as if the whole thing started with a plan and a clean outfit and a girl who knew what she was doing. I had a dress on because Mia said the other one made me look like I was going to a funeral in Chelsea, and I had already done my mouth twice in the Uber because the first attempt went patchy under the streetlights. Friday. Soho. The sort of early evening that still pretends it is going to be civilised.
We were meant to be meeting two other girls who then did that thing where they are ten minutes away for forty minutes. I hate that. I also do it. Anyway I was at the bar on my own for long enough that the man pouring drinks had already clocked me, and I had already clocked him back, which is how most of my better decisions start.
He looked bored in a useful way
He was fit. Not in the gym-selfie way, more in the I have been on my feet since five and I still look better than half the room way. Dark hair pushed back like he had given up on it around nine. Forearms. You notice forearms when someone is cutting fruit and not performing for you. Brown eyes, I think. The lighting in that place is all amber and lies, so I would not swear to the exact colour in court.
He was bored. That is important. Bored men behind a bar are dangerous because they have already seen every version of the night and they are still standing there, wiping the same bit of wood. He looked at me like I had started something. I had not, not with my mouth anyway. I had only been standing there in a dress that was doing some of the talking for me.
I asked for a vodka soda because I am not inventing a personality for a stranger at 8.40pm. He made it slower than he needed to. Held the eye contact a second longer than the job requires. I have been out enough times to know the difference between service and an opening.
So I took it.
Good manners, apparently
There is a version of this story where I wait for him to lean over and do the brave bit. I have lived that version. It is slower and it gives you time to talk yourself out of it and then you go home with a story about almost. I was not in an almost mood. I had already reapplied and the night was still empty in the middle.
I said something stupid first, because you have to. Asked if it got quieter later. He laughed through his nose like he had heard that line from better people than me. Said it got louder, then worse, then interesting. I told him I could work with interesting.
Then I kissed him.
Not a full production. Just enough that there was no doubt who moved first. He tasted like mint and whatever he had been sneaking when the manager was not looking. His hand stayed on the bar, which I respected. There are cameras. There are colleagues. There is a till that still needs to open. I am not trying to get a man sacked for a Friday. I am trying to make the night start.
He kissed me back though. That is the bit I keep. He could have done the professional lean away and the little shake of the head. He did not. Two seconds, maybe three. Then a girl behind me made a noise that was half laugh half shock and I pulled back like I had only been reaching for a napkin.
He looked at me properly then. Less bored.
The next drink arrived before I had finished the first one. No card. No performance. Just set down like it had always been coming. Mia arrived in the middle of that and went, what did you do, and I said nothing, which is how you can tell I did something.
The drinks did come quicker after that
I am not going to pretend this was a grand romance. It was a bar in Soho on a Friday and I had lipstick on my teeth at one point, which he actually told me, quietly, like a favour. I fixed it in the back of a spoon because the mirrors in those loos are always occupied by girls having a different crisis.
He kept finding reasons to come down our end. Fresh ice. A lime that did not need replacing. The sort of nonsense you only notice if you are watching for it. I was watching for it. I like being watched back. I will not apologise for that. Half the city is pretending they wandered into the night by accident. I walked in on purpose.
Mia kept kicking me under the table. Sophie was on a work thing and texting us to be careful, which is her whole personality after 9pm. I sent her a photo of the bar and no context. She replied with three question marks. I left her on read because some stories are better in the morning when you can edit them.
We did not shag in the stock room, before you get excited. I thought about it. He thought about it. You can tell when someone is doing the maths behind their eyes. Last orders was a mess of people who had arrived too late to be interesting and I was already calculating the night bus versus an Uber versus the possibility that he finished at one and I was still awake.
He finished at one.
After last orders it gets honest
Outside it was that Soho cold that always feels personal. He had his staff T shirt on under a jacket that had seen better winters. I had my coat half on because I am constitutionally unable to leave a place looking finished. He lit a cigarette and then remembered himself and asked if I minded. I minded a bit. I still stood there.
We did the usual rubbish. Where are you going after this. Who are you here with. Do you do this a lot. I told him I do what the night asks for, which sounds cooler than it is. What I meant was I get bored of waiting for men to decide I am allowed.
He said he does not usually. I believed him about as much as I believe anyone at 1.10am. Then he kissed me again, properly this time, no bar in the way, and it was better because there was nothing to knock over.
I went back to his after that. Of course I did. The alternative was Parsons Green and Sophie’s face and a kettle and the slow death of a good outfit. His place was a flatshare in a bit of town that pretends it is still cheap. Mattress on a decent frame, which I always notice. Clean enough that I did not have to do the shoes-off calculation too hard.
I am not writing you the whole sex scene. Use your imagination. He was better than the first kiss suggested and worse than the second one promised, which is to say he was a person and not a caption. I stayed later than I meant to because the heating worked and I could not be bothered to find my other earring in the dark.
Morning is where the story gets judged
I did the walk at an hour that is technically morning if you are being generous. Concealer in my bag. Hair doing that thing where it admits what the night was. Tesco for water and a banana I did not want. The man behind the till looked at me like he had seen this exact purchase a thousand times, which he probably had.
Sophie was already up when I got in, which felt targeted. She took one look at me and said, barman, and I said, maybe, and she said, you are so obvious it is actually impressive. Mia stumbled out, stole my banana, and asked if he was fit. I said yes. She said then it counts.
I keep thinking about the first two seconds at the bar, not the later bit. The later bit was fine. Fine is easy. The first two seconds were me deciding I was not going to stand there looking available and hoping the universe did the rest. He was already looking at me like I had started it. So I did.
People love to call that strategy. It was not strategy. Strategy would have been getting his surname and a second date and a version of myself that looks good in a group chat. This was manners. He put the night on the counter. I picked it up.
Would I do it again. Yes. Will I go back to that bar next Friday and act surprised. Also yes. He might not even be on. That is the risk with kissing people who have a rota. I still have the receipt from the drinks I did not pay for, folded in the pocket of the coat I should have taken to the dry cleaner already. I am keeping it. Not because I am sentimental. Because one day I will write this down and I will want proof that I moved first.
Anyway. If you are going to spend forty quid on a dress and an Uber, you may as well use your mouth for something other than ordering.