The bell rings and a man plonks himself opposite me, inadvertently pushing the table far enough to make the candle flicker. The loud screech of the legs on the floor makes everyone look at us for a second.
‘See, we’re already the most checked-out couple in the room,’ he jokes.
I know I’m certainly checked out.
‘I’m Brad,’ he tells me.
Of course he’s called Brad. Men with muscles like that always have a cool-guy name, don’t they?
He raises an arm to push his hair back, oh-so blatantly flexing his bicep as he does, setting out his stall from the off.
His T-shirt is so tight you could mistake it for being sprayed on – it’s distracting, but not in a sexy way, I’m finding my eyes darting from seam to seam, waiting to see which one splits first.
‘Do you have a name?’ he prompts me. ‘Or have you forgotten it?’
I don’t think he’s joking. In fact, I could swear he gave a subtle nod to my hair – my blonde locks. Does he think I’m dumb? If either of us looks like we could have forgotten our name, it would definitely be him. If not his name, then definitely how to spell it.
‘Cleo,’ I tell him.
‘Looking at my arms, huh?’ he says with a grin.
I am, but not for the reason he thinks I am.
‘Well, I bench 315, squat 415, deadlift 550,’ he tells me, not that I understand a word of it. ‘And most important of all, the one I’m sure you’re interested in – hip thrust, 650.’
It’s only his wink that tips me off to this clearly being some kind of sexual thing and – ew.
‘Do you go to the gym, Cleo?’ he asks.
‘I used to,’ I reply. ‘My local had a café that did this amazing baked potato. They took it off the menu, I was gutted.’
‘What’s your PB?’ he asks.
‘My PB?’
‘Your personal best,’ he adds.
‘Oh, right,’ I reply. ‘Two.’
‘Two?’ he repeats back to me. ‘Just two?’
‘Just two?’ I clap back. ‘I was pretty hungry, but three baked potatoes is a bit excessive.’
His face falls. It doesn’t take mine long to follow.
‘Ah, you didn’t mean the food.’
‘Erm, no… no, I didn’t.’
Brad looks at me in a way that reminds me that: be yourself is not good advice when it comes to trying to attract most men.
‘Yeah, I mostly just went for the café,’ I tell him.
‘I couldn’t even tell you if mine had a café,’ he replies. ‘I take a shake, so…’
Well, that’s this conversation dead in the water. I need to get it back on track.
‘So, do you watch much TV?’ I ask.
