I wasn’t ready when I invited a man over. I must have overreached myself. There was a pile of potatoes on the table that required peeling, and I was still in my dressing gown.
The doorbell then rang. He was here. I couldn’t let him stand on the landing by himself. So, dressed as that, I had to open the door. It felt a little strange because it was his first visit.
I squirmed about, beckoning him into the living room. I then hurried to change in the restroom. When I emerge five minutes later, the man is not there. Amazing! Was he truly gone?
Peeking into the kitchen, I found him peeling potatoes, with his head tilted to one side in concentration. I stood there, admiring the sight, feeling a soft warmth inside. A charming man, no doubt. Just looking at him was a delight. His trousers and jumper matched as if they were made for each other. His socks were clearly new. He had tidy hair and the faint scent of refined cologne.
After a quick dinner, we decided to take a stroll. We jostled each other playfully in the narrow hallway, laughing. Then, with a grand gesture, he handed me my coat as if I were royalty.
It felt wonderful to be the center of attention, like being something delicate and precious that should be cherished.
As we walked down the street, he gently offered his arm for support on the small slopes. He held doors open for me with a gracious, “Please, after you.”
We came across a flower stall along the way, and he pulled me towards it. He told the florist, “Anything the lady desires.” Modestly, I asked for a single large red rose. He grinned and shook his head. A minute later, he presented me with a bouquet of what must have been a dozen fresh, vibrant flowers.
We needed to pick up a bottle of wine, a small cake, and some fruit.
In the shop, he didn’t impose his opinions or bombard me with advice. He stood slightly aside, like a gentleman’s attendant. Who would have thought there were still gentlemen in the world?
That evening, I felt truly happy. A wonderful joy seemed to envelop me, filling my heart with a delicate rhythm.
A rare gentleman, like one out of a classic novel. Sometimes, I wondered anxiously, is he real? Or just an illusion?
With a dancer’s grace, he twirled me around, looked merrily into my eyes, and seated me on the sofa. With a deft movement, he set the table and fetched the wine from the kitchen.
His intuition was astounding: he knew exactly where to find the glasses without asking.
The glasses sparkled, the fruit looked inviting, and the candles were lit. A gallant man beside me. What more could one want? Nothing more. This was the pinnacle, the triumph of happiness any woman could imagine.
Then his phone buzzed. He frowned slightly and mentioned his mother was calling. With a disgruntled look, he stepped out into the corridor.
Instinctively, I followed him quietly.
“Yes, Mum, of course, Mum,” he began.
Then suddenly, in a sharp voice, “I’m so fed up with you! Get lost!” followed by a rather rude suggestion of where she could go.
Goodness, I felt a chill. Was he a monster? Did he have some hidden temper?
He returned with a charming smile as if nothing had happened. I feigned disappointment and said that a friend’s husband was out of control, and she was stuck with her child. They’d be over in half an hour. I pleaded, “Shall we continue our celebration tomorrow? I’m really upset by this.”
He left. I didn’t sleep all night. My heart gnawed by an inexplicable feeling. The next morning, I texted him, “Sorry, but you’re not quite my type. No further explanation.”
