Page 5 of Love at First Sight

‘Is it weird if I come?’

BINGO!!

‘Yes,’ I say, tongue firmly in cheek. I give him a wink for good measure. ‘But a good weird.’

He chuckles, shaking his head like he never planned for his afternoon to unfold this way, but is happy it has.

‘I can live with that,’ he decides, and we follow the performer.

The show is in a small basement theatre across the road from the supermarket, and the actors have managed to half fill the hundred or so seats. Cal and I are forced into thefront row, and sit in curious silence, no idea what’s about to happen. I want to grab his arm, to nestle into him. We have centimetres between us and I can feel the heat radiating off his bare skin. He smells sweaty, but not putrid or stale. He smells sexy, in that way I imagine a man chopping wood in the great outdoors smells, or Paul Mescal inGladiator II. Pureman.

The theatre is plunged into darkness with no warning, and it scares me so much I gasp.

‘You okay?’ Cal whispers, and it’s only when I tell him I’m fine and he looks pointedly down at his arm that I realise I have actually grabbed him. Any excuse, I suppose.

‘Sorry,’ I whisper back, but he puts his hand over mine to encourage me to keep it there, so I do, and he is hard and firm to the touch, and then there’s a man on the stage, in a spotlight, who starts screaming.

The next hour is a largely inexplicable mix of chanting, acrobatics and full-on nudity that, whilst brave, doesn’t seem to add to the story – on account of there not reallybeinga story. It is more designed to shock, I think. God bless that, instead of getting awkward about it, Cal simply leans over and whispers, ‘Christ. That’s a massive cock, isn’t it?’ I have a coughing fit trying to hold in my laughter. 10/10 response, that. I add it to my mental list of reasons why this bloke is a keeper.

By the time we stumble back out onto Church Street sixty minutes later, into the mid-afternoon sun, all I can say is: ‘That. Was …’

‘Insane?’ Cal supplies, and I half agree.

‘Yes? But also kind of amazing?’

‘I feel you were swayed by the scene with the naked dancing.’

‘Mesmerisedis the word.’

We’ve laughed in the past hour, and at two different points I almost cried too. Once, when one of the performers gave a monologue about missing his mother, and the second time at a poem about love. Now I think about it, whilst there wasn’t a plot, the show was most definitely about sex and longing and trying to soothe the ache we all feel, at one point or another, as humans. One of those things that the more you think about it after, the more it affects you. Maybe they really will win a BAFTA one day.

‘It’s left me feeling quite raw, I think,’ Cal says, as we linger outside the basement theatre. ‘Does that make sense?’

‘Same,’ I say. ‘That was a lot of feelings.’

‘A lot,’ he agrees. His face is solemn, reflective. The show has touched him as much as it touched me, I think. I want to ask him why, to ask him if a monologue about missing a mother, and a poem about love, affected him like it affected me. I want to know what makes him sad, and happy, and everything in between, so we can feel those things together. Something has begun. This is fact.

People are milling around, some outside the pub opposite, drinking pints and Aperol Spritzes under the blossoming pink hanging baskets and crawling ivy.Others saunter in and out of restaurants, most of which have their front windows open for that al fresco feeling. I don’t want to go home, but I don’t know what happens next. It’s 3 p.m., and I’ve not eaten since breakfast, but I cannot, will not, break this spell. Cal is …interesting. Interesting, with his jokes and his confidence and his smile and his smell.

‘I’m pretty starving, after such an eventful afternoon,’ he says, looking at me with what is absolutely hope in his eyes. I think I’m supposed to get the hint. I feel like I’m in a TV show – and, finally, I’m the leading lady with her own plotline. I’m a Bridgerton about to get her own season.Thank god! It’s my turn to be happy! PRAISE BE!

‘I was gonna have to order something from Uber Eats,’ I say. ‘I never did get to check out my shopping …’

Cal laughs. ‘Because you wouldn’t shoplift,’ he reminds me, and I throw up my hands, my superior moral compass evident.

‘We could …’ Cal starts, and I look at him. A kaleidoscope of butterflies takes flight in my ribcage, my heart beating the two-step. He seems flustered too, unsure. I hold my breath as I wait for him to finish. I need him to be the one to say it, to give me the proof we are in this together. ‘Grab a bite? Together?’ he settles on, and relief flushes through me. He wants to keep this going too. It’s happening!!

‘Sure,’ I say, a bit too quickly. ‘I’d like that,’ I add, for the avoidance of doubt. ‘I did not expect today to turn out this way, but I’m glad it has.’

Cal grins. ‘Me too. Come on. I know a place.’

We end up in a small-plates bistro in Lower Clapton, where Cal seems to know everyone.

‘Do you come here a lot?’ I ask, once we’ve ordered a couple of beers and settled in to look at the menu. The woman on the door knew Cal by name, as did our waiter. Mr Popular.

‘I know the owner,’ Cal says. ‘I helped him with some permits so, not that he owes me but …’

‘He owes you?’ I supply, eyebrows raised playfully.

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