It’s a quarter past five, and two weeks of speed-texting and one muffled phone call later, here we are. His eyes are piercing grey, his cheekbones high and hollow, like the insides of a psychopath’s heart. He’s not unattractive to look at, him with his close cropped hair and his arched eyebrows, and on a good day, I can sulk in the dark recesses of my mind and write a haiku about him. He greets me with a cheerful high-pitched Hi. The haiku dies before its five syllables could even begin.
His face had hinted at a baritone voice, but I am clearly wrong. Now I notice that his chin is too weak, his shirt has a slight tear and his nose is off-centre. He seems socially awkward, but not the kind that is sexy. Two looks at me nervously through his grey eyes as they dart back and forth in the coffee shop, as if we are being watched by assassins. He’s an entertainment journalist who runs a celebrity gossip blog under a pseudonym, so we probably are. We call for our coffees and a brownie to share and get ourselves a table in the corner. No hired ninjas around, so we are good to go. I momentarily long to run my hand through his stubble in the private confines of our little alcove, but he would probably shriek like a girl.