We’re placed opposite each other on blue velvet chairs at a table with a view of the Thames.
The next table is very close by, occupied by an older, very eccentric-looking lady. She might be somewhere in her sixties. She has sunglasses on inside, wears a very expensive-looking, colourful, what I would best describe as a female suit. It is frankly not a costume. But then—what do I know about fashion? It is the last thing I am interested in. I knit my sweaters myself and wear the same pair of jeans every day. She is the complete opposite of me—With her short, white-blond hair, she looks something between royal and fashion designer.
Never in my life would I wear anything close to what the woman wears. I like not to draw attention to myself, and that lady screams for it. I’m amazed and repulsed at the same time, and when I sit down with my back to her, I am quite pleased.
Silence passes between Robert and me. I don’t know what to do, and he is fidgeting with his fingers. Apparently nervous. I am as uncomfortable as it can get and have to keep myself from shifting in my seat.
“So, how is your mother?” I ask Robert to start a conversation.
“Still the same,” he says. “Sadly. There is nothing the doctors can do anymore, so we’re making her as comfortable as possible. She’s happy I’m still there, I believe.”
“She must,” I say. The waiter comes, and we order tea. I am and always will be a green tea girl; he chose Earl Grey and a treacle tart.
I’d like one, too, but I hate to eat in public. I am certain that particular issue is my mother’s fault, who has been fussing about my, her own and everybody else's body since I can remember.
‘Do you really want to eat that? It’ll make you even fatter.’
‘Look at that woman there, if she eats one more tart, she’ll explode.’
‘God, I got so fat!’—said by my mother, who has been a size zero since forever.
I am not. I’m a midsize, apparently inherited my father’s genes there, and I was always too much for her. Too much hips. Too much thighs. Face too round.
I love my mother, but eating has always been an issue for me, thanks to her. It got better since I live on the other side of London and she has her new husband to focus on, but her voice follows me everywhere in my head.
Tea comes, and we haven’t changed another word. It is as uncomfortable as it can get, and I take a way too hot sip from my tea to have something to do with my hands.
Robert eats his treacle tart. The noises he makes while chewing disgust me.
“Is it good?” I ask.
“Very,” he says with a full mouth and takes another bite of it. I sigh silently. I know why I never go out. He’s not even trying to make conversation.
“You come here often?” I try one last time.
“Not really, no. I usually am with my mother. But my sister is visiting this weekend, so I have some time on my hands.”
“Ah,” I say. “Must be nice to have some free time, mustn’t it?”
“I don’t have much else to do,” he says. “School and my mother are all I do, so I am not sure. Additionally, my sister is very annoying.”
I may not know anything about dating and going out, but this is worse than bad.
“Didn’t you organise those bicycle days back at university? What happened to those?” I ask.
“I’d rather spend my time with my mother,” he says before silence falls over us again.
He’s not asking me a single question,I tell myself as I realise I am the only reason we're having any conversation. I wonder how long he’ll go through with it if I don’t ask another question.
In fact, nothing happens. We sit there and stare outside, and I hasten to empty my tea.
“Well,” I say at some point, “I’ll have to leave soon, dinner plans.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot,” he says, and nothing happens. Somehow, I imagined this would go very differently. Like him calling the waiter, but he doesn’t. So I even do that.
We pay separately. I have expected nothing else and wouldn’t want anything different. Worst case, he’d invite me, and I had to return the favour and live through this again.
“Well, that was nice,” he says when we get up, and I almost swallow on my own spit. “We should repeat that.”
