My phone buzzes rudely one sweaty afternoon. ‘Hi,’ texts Seven, a Final Year Architectural undergrad who stays only a suburb away. I reply similarly. We’ve been at this for weeks, monosyllabic conversations that end before they begin. I am bored, and it’s time to finally take the plunge. I ask him whether he wants to meet. He’s busy with his dissertation thesis, and can’t step out. Can I come over?
I think about it. I’ve never met him, and this could be a really bad idea, like the time I decided to fry an egg in the microwave. Exchanging sweet nothings through text messages is one thing, but meeting someone new in the confines of their house for the very first time? Hello, How-do-I-get-out-of-this-hot-mess? What if he turns out to be an axe murderer? What if he robs me off all my money? What if he’s an imposter? Or worse, what if he’s not as pretty as his pictures?
We are outside a dingy watering hole somewhere in town, Six and I. We bond over Instagram pictures and I simper over his Bengali ancestry and his upcoming PhD in something I don’t remember. He looks around and tells me he’s never been to a place like this. I think of saying something clichéd, like ‘There’s-a-first-time-for-everything’, but I don’t want to sound clichéd.
‘Well, there’s a first time for everything.’ I usher him inside.
We make a plan to flirt dangerously over unlimited wine at a fancy wine bar somewhere in town, him and I – Five, a self-proclaimed diva and a fashion intern who dresses to kill. The boy seems to take that bit very seriously – he’s wearing something you would see on a model at a fashion show. Suspenders and a broach over a crisp button-down navy blue shirt. Paired well with refined wing cap brogues, a shade of dark chestnut, with tan shoelaces- wait, is he wearing a bow tie?
We decide to meet at the local art festival, one fresh February afternoon. The festival is being held at an unused car park in the city’s heritage precinct, because art festivals usually happen in unused car parks on fresh February afternoons. It’s the usual scene: Trapeze artists and exotic dancers from the interiors of India boxed and exported to a makeshift stage by the driveway, compartmentalized art that no one understands but still wants a picture with, a motley crew of artists staring listlessly in space while their art stares right back. There are always pretentious people doing pretentious things – I unknowingly tug at my plush argyle sweater and brush at my vintage Ray Bans.
Four, a marketing executive from the city, is fresh-faced (quite like the February afternoon we find ourselves in) – lean and muscular, with gorgeous Greek god features. The sun is out, and his two day stubble looks like an airbrushed 5’o clock shadow, tugging lusciously at his well-defined cheekbones. He’s wearing smart chinos and a crisp shirt that would he would look better without. When you are next to him, you lose about three inches of height and gain fifty pounds instantaneously.
A warm March afternoon. We are somewhere in the dregs of 2011 – the world is sepia-hued and hazy, like a fading photograph from a long-forgotten album. It’s what great stories with great beginnings are made up of, ones that we could have saved on our Snapchat rolls, but sadly, that doesn’t exist yet.
I am sitting with him, at on old-school drinking hole in the suburbs. It’s full of screechy sixteen year-olds with the weight of the world on their shoulders. The restaurant reeks of college gossip, and stories of what your best friend did behind your back during Biology lab. But I am unconcerned. Three is tall, gangly and has a rather large set of ears (note to self: If this were a modern-day adaptation of Red Riding Hood, it would have been better for him to hear me with), but he has an expressive face, like a dancer’s. He’s a friend of a friend’s, and I’ve had a crush on him the whole of 2010 (in gay years, that’s a lifetime, but more on that some other time.) I don’t notice the eyebrow-piercing, or the bottled up insecurities – it’s too early, and I am too infatuated.