It’s hot enough to make cheese melt on the pavement. The sun is doing funny things to my powers of reason. I think that Hot Richard is eroding my resolve one message at a time. He calls me first thing in the morning because I tell him that I just want someone to wake up with me every day at 5:45am. We talk as I get ready for work. I feel closer to him than to any man I have in a long time.
Hot Richard has a fascination with cricket greens. This is an odd interest, but on Wednesday he calls me to tell me he’s admiring a nearby cricket green, and will be able to see me very shortly. This time I meet him just behind my office building, he greets me without a kiss and we walk towards Barbican centre.
There, we browse the original designs for the Barbican, and then we get a coffee and sit outside. I think that Barbican is a hidden treasure in the city. Even in the height of summer, the outdoor space is rarely so packed that you can’t sit on a bench. It’s calm, peaceful, and a retreat.
Hot Richard describes these lunchtime meetings as “a bit of a tease,” which I choose not to read too much into. He looks at me as though I might be somewhat edible, but we continue to talk about his family.
We discuss the way that we had interacted with each other before we had met in real life, in comparison with the way that we talk now.
“I think we were just really dirty with each other,” he says, and he’s right. I vividly remember him sending me a (relatively tame) dick pic before our first meeting. For this reason I had completely disregarded meeting him. I’m glad now that I went against my better judgement.
“It’s different now though,” I say. I mean it. He acts differently with me now. He says things like “You are the sweetest thing,” and sends me pictures of sunsets.
I’m ignoring red flags, but I don’t seem to be able to find the capacity to care. I blame the sunshine.