He was quiet for a few moments. “So, he’s your type then? Slim and shorter than you?”
“I don’t have a type looks-wise,” I said. “I like all types of guys. Taller, shorter, broader, leaner, bigger, smaller. Blonde, brunette, red hair. Long hair, short. Green eyes, blue eyes, brown.”
“Come on, you have to have a type.”
“I really don’t. It’s like watching Hollywood movies. You can recognise loads of different actors are hot even if they look totally different.”
He poked my arm, eyes still on his model. “You’re giving me the diplomatic answer. If you could design the perfect boyfriend, what would he look like?”
“Fine,” I groaned. “My perfect boyfriend would be tall and kinda muscular. He doesn’t have to be jacked or anything, just pretty fit. He would have a nice smile and pretty eyes — blue eyes, I’m a sucker for blue. And blond hair. Dark blond —” I cut myself off abruptly, realising I was describing the man beside me.
Leo didn’t react. I could tell he was listening, but his hands were still moving, working on his model.
“And he has beach waves,” I blurted. “And he surfs.”
“He surfs?” Leo echoed
“Yep. He’s the typical blond, wavy-haired surfer boy.” I didn’t give a crap about guys who surfed — I just needed to start describing someone who was the opposite of the man sitting beside me. “And he has a massive surfboard.”
Leo paused. “Is the surfboard important?”
“Some would argue it’s the most important thing of all. It has to be clean. When people keep their things clean, it says a lot about them. I don’t want to date someone unhygienic.”
He nodded.
“And it has to be thick. I don’t want him to have some flimsy floppy surfboard.” Last year, I’d chatted up a guy who surfed at a queer bar. He told me all about the different types of surfboards while I half-listened, wondering whether he’d go home with me. Now, I tried to remember what he’d said. “And it has to have a good thrust.”
Leo made a weird noise.
Was he on to my bullshit? “Thrusts are very important to surfboards,” I said seriously. “It’s what propels the surfboard forward.”
“I…see.”
“Finally, it has to be long. It’s more comfortable to sit on a long surfboard.”
“And you’ll be…sitting on this guy’s surfboard?”
“Of course. That’s one of the major reasons I’ll be dating the guy — so we can surf together.”
Leo nodded slowly as if considering something deep. “And what do you consider to be long?”
“Hmm.” What had surfer hookup guy said? “Six, six point 5. Maybe even seven?”
Leo’s head whipped to look at me. “Seven inches?”
“What? No! Seven feet. So that’d be over two metres.” I blinked at him. “How could a surfboard be seven inches? That’d be impossible to ride.”
“Right,” Leo said. “Right, it’d be impossible to ride a seven-inch…” he trailed off, and then the strangest thing happened — he went red. Scarlet washed over his face in slow motion, from his neck to his hairline.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Are you having an allergic reaction?”
He startled and let go of his model to press both hands to his cheeks. “Fuck me,” he muttered, so low I barely heard it. “It’s nothing,” he told me, his voice back to a normal volume. “I’m being stupid.”
He wouldn’t meet my eyes, so I didn’t push it. A few minutes passed, and we paused our work every now and then to sip our drinks. Carving shapes out of paper wasn’t exciting, but I found it satisfying as I worked through an entire sheet.
Leo cleared his throat. “So, uh, you know your imaginary perfect boyfriend?”
“What about him?”
