Page 18 of A Wistful Symphony

Tentative Waltz

H ow does one prepare for a date?

The question has kept me up for the past two days.

I’m sure there must be some sort of etiquette to it.

Everything in life has, even the simplest things.

Like bringing wine or pudding when you’re invited for dinner, or how you’re supposed to send a thank you note after receiving a gift.

Why don’t they teach us that in school? To a socially inept person like me, it would be a much more useful life skill than, say, trigonometry.

I try some research, but Reddit has the most bizarre compilation of discussions on the matter, from which type of clothes are easiest to unzip, to how to properly shave your privates, to which brands of condoms have the best feel and are less prone to allergies (that seems rather useful, though).

Is everything on dates about sex? I was thinking more on the lines of my outfit choice and ice breaker topics for conversation.

I need outside assistance. Zoe’s had dates before, which is more than I can say about myself, but I’ll be damned if I ever let her in my barely existent love life. There’s only one person I can resort to.

“Ollie, I need your help,” I say as soon as he picks up.

“Wow, you’re calling. This must be an emergency.”

“It is. I have a date with Westcott.”

“Okay,” he singsongs slowly. “What’s wrong with that? Is he dead? Do you need a hand to bury his corpse?”

“What? No! It’s—” I glance hopelessly at the havoc inside the room and pass a palm over my face. “I’m supposed to meet him in two hours, my entire wardrobe is on the bed, and I’m pretty sure I’ll need another shower judging by how much I’m sweating at the moment.”

“Oy, I see the emergency now.” There’s a muffled laugh on the other side of the line. “Alright, don’t panic.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Right, my bad. Walk me through it. Where are you two going?”

“The Royal Oak, at seven-thirty.” It hits me the place will probably be packed at that hour. “Shoot, do you think I should’ve made a reservation?”

“It’s a pub, Eric, not a restaurant.” I can almost see his thick eyebrows rising. “Let’s keep this simple. Pick up a pair of jeans you like.”

“Jeans, okay.” I browse through the pile of clothing and fish one out. “Aren’t jeans impractical? Thick fabric, hard zippers and whatnot?”

“Do you expect Westcott to go in your pants on the first date? I’m impressed, my friend.”

“No.” I blush furiously. “It’s just something I read on—whatever, forget it. What’s next?”

“A T-shirt. Nothing fancy, no funny phrases or bright colours.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down much. What colour should I pick?”

“Probably blue, since everything you wear is blue.”

“Not everything I wear is—” I glance at the pile of clothes. “You may have a point.”

“Told you. Wear a dark jacket and trainers, brush your hair, put on a nice cologne, and that’s it. No mystery.”

“I think I got it.” I rest the outfit on the back of my chair. “What do I talk about?”

“I don’t know, the same stuff we talk about.”

“Somehow I don’t think he’d be interested in your crushes, blends of coffee, or who’s the best Russian composer of all time. Perhaps the latter.”

“Maybe he’ll finally put in your stubborn head that Tchaikovsky is the greatest.”

“In your dreams. Rach is totally better.”

“Oh, yes? Did Rachmaninoff compose masterpieces for orchestra, opera and ballet while secretly being a queer icon?”

“I don’t have time for that argument now, Ollie.”

“Fine, fine. Look, you two go to the same sixth form and the same psychiatrist. There’s plenty of common ground to make a conversation. You’ll be alright.”

“Yeah, I can do this. It’s just a date.”

“That’s the spirit.” He pauses. “Be careful out there, okay? After the shitstorm with the photos, you never know. If anything bad happens, you call me.”

“I will.” I can’t hold in a smile. If I can count on anything in this life, it’s that Ollie will have my back no matter what. “Thanks.”

“And if Westcott goes in your pants tonight, tell me everything when you get back.”

“Go to hell, Ollie.”

He laughs out loud. “Love you too, Eric from the music department.”

Hints of laughter remain in the room when I hang up.

Ollie’s jokes can be embarrassing, but he does have a way of making me feel relaxed.

It gives me the energy to put away the mess I made on the bed, though it can’t stop me from ironing every piece of clothing before returning them to my wardrobe.

Humour sadly isn’t at all effective on intrusive thoughts.

After having a second bath—like I said, intrusive thoughts—and getting ready, I analyse myself in the mirror.

Selected outfit? Check. The only cologne I own?

Check. Brushed hair? Check. Even I have to admit it doesn’t look bad.

I’m about to leave the room when I recall the pack of condoms safely stored in my nightstand’s drawer.

I open the bottom drawer and stare at the thing. There’s no way in hell it’ll happen .

I take one anyway and put it in my wallet. Better safe than sorry.

I walk the corridor in subtle steps, trying my best not to make the floorboards creak.

Zoe and Delia are in their rooms, and I absolutely don’t want their prying.

When I reach downstairs, a streak of mellow notes reach my ears.

It’s one of those rare moments when Mum is alone in the sitting room, and she gets to practice her cello.

I tiptoe behind her, hoping not to draw too much attention.

“I’m going out, Mum, won’t be late,” I blurt out.

“It’s Wednesday, mister, and you’re still grounded from last time, don’t you remember?”

I freeze at the front door, back turned to her. Shit. I’d completely forgotten.

“Could you make an exception just this once? It’s not a party, I swear. Just a date.”

“A date?” Mum’s voice softens. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that before.”

“First time for everything, I suppose.”

It draws a fond smile out of her. “Are you meeting Andrew? Where are you two kids going?”

“The Royal Oak.”

Her smile withers into a glare. “You know you shouldn’t drink, Eric.”

“I can handle a pint. Won’t drink more than that. Promise.”

“You better.” She points the bow in my direction. “Want me to drive you there?”

“Are you joking? No, I’m biking.”

“Oh gosh,” she giggles and hands me twenty quid from her jumper pocket. “Take this at least, for a cab ride.”

“Mum, you don’t have to.” I know how tight our budget is.

“My treat. I insist.” She stuffs the note in my pocket and rubs my arm. “Have fun, darling, and behave.”

“I will, thanks.” I smile back at her and leave.

The Royal Oak is not only an establishment, but a local institution.

Open since 1873, it’s where the town congregates to vent about work or gossip about neighbours while drenching themselves in locally crafted beer.

Not my cup of tea. The few times I’ve been here were to pick up my tipsy grandmother, who has a decades-long flirt game going on with Mr Jeffreys, the owner and Shelley’s grandfather.

Old stone walls and rustic tables make the place resemble a cellar, but dim yellow lights and the lurking smell of barley, malt, and fried appetisers turn everything cosy. If it wasn’t for the cackling crowd, I could almost enjoy myself.

Mr Jeffreys is behind the counter stocking clean pint glasses, but before I have time to say hello, the ginger server blocks my view.

“What can I get ya, luv?” she asks with a bored expression, and I blink at her, not knowing the first thing about beers.

“What do you recommend?”

She sizes me up and down. “Pale lager. Might be easier for ya.” She smirks, turning straight to the taps. Is my ineptitude in this place that obvious?

I balance my filled-to-the-brim pint to a perfect two-seat table.

Cleaning the table, the chair and the pint with antibacterial wipes before I sit down turns a few heads, but I’m used to it by now.

My knee bounces furiously, and I have a sip to take the edge off.

No use. I tap one of Scriabin’s preludes on the dark hardwood but cut it short to check for new messages. Nothing.

Why am I so nervous? It’s just you, the aloof guy I used to see almost every day at school, who plays the violin like a beast and knows my weird shit because we shared the shrink’s waiting room for over a year.

The guy who gave me the most amazing kisses and brushed his thigh on my crotch less than a week ago. Yeah, I see the contradiction here.

You want honesty, Andrew? I’m afraid. Scared shitless.

Last Friday was a dream because we were both high.

The courageous, funny, live-in-the-moment Eric was a product of the drugs.

Without them, there’s just me. Plain, boring, neurotic, nerdy, uptight me.

And I’m terrified when we talk tonight, you’ll hate this Eric, like most people do.

What will I do with that?

The door opens and you walk in, blowing into your cupped hands to ward off the chilly night air. As you scan the place, I signal, but your gaze goes right by me. My hand jolts upward and I finally catch your attention. A curious furrow creases your eyebrows, but you smile anyway and come to me.

“Hi, Andrew,” I say, incapable of adding anything else.

“Hey, Eric.” You run a coy hand through your hair, not daring to take the spare chair. “This is about the last place I’d expect to run into you on a Wednesday night. Are you waiting for someone? I was supposed to meet a friend, but he seems to be running late. Do you mind if I wait here with you?”

“What?” My forehead carves in a frown so deep it almost gives me a headache. “What the heck are you on about?”

You take in my confused expression and glance at the table. For some reason, your cheeks blush. “Sorry, are you on a date? No worries, I’ll get out of here.”