It feels like an age passes before the noise stops.
‘Are you ready?’ Patrick asks, and I jump slightly because this is the first time I’ve heard his voice in front of me, instead of through the speakers.
He really is right in front of me. Suddenly, he feels so much more real to me. I can hear the rustle of his clothes as he moves, the sound of him breathing. I think I can even smellhis perfume, the washing powder he uses, his shampoo – all creating a warm, surprisingly floral smell. Clean, fresh, lovely.
Patrick ishere.
I just have to open my eyes.
‘Yes,’ I say, throwing a huge smile onto my face. ‘On three? Three.’
‘Two.’
‘One.’
There he is.
The first thing I notice are his eyes. A deep soft brown, with the start of crow’s feet pinching at the corners as he smiles. Those crinkles mean he’s a man who smiles a lot. That matches up with the Patrick in my head.
His smile is open mouthed, handsome but sweet too. His fluffy brown hair is short and pushed back, and he’s taller than me, which is no surprise because I’ve always been knee-high to a gnat. He looks exactly like who you’d want looking after your sick pets.
Patrick is a beautiful man.
My God.
I laugh. I don’t mean to, but it comes out in a rush, and I clap my hands over my lips to stifle it.
But then he does the same. And we’re giggling together, watching each other through this tiny partition, suddenly very real.
‘Hi, Carys.’
He watches me as I watch him. I wonder if this is how fish in an aquarium feel.
I manage to stammer out, ‘Hi.’
‘This is really weird, isn’t it?’ He laughs awkwardly, and I join in, enjoying the blended sound of our laughter. He laughs from deep in his chest, down in the diaphragm, a laugh from his soul. ‘I can’t believe it. You’re rightthere,’ he gasps.
‘You’ve been right there all along,’ I echo.
I could fall in love with him. I know it. I can feel flutters in my stomach, in my chest, like butterfly kisses.
And yet there’s a voice in my head that whispers should I be feeling more, doing more, saying more?
The butterflies aren’t sparks, after all. Sparks mean electricity, passion, wanting. Should I be trying to tear down this barrier to get to him, or is that unrealistic? What are the other women doing? If I knew what everyone else was doing, maybe I’d know how I’m supposed to act here. Am I doing attraction wrong?
I’m not sure, but I’m enjoying the stillness of watching each other.
And then I remember that we are being filmed. I school my face into a huge smile, just in case I wasn’t smiling enough while I was looking at him. God, I hope I was smiling? Resting bitch face was a term coined for autistic women when they’ve just got a neutral face. But the last thing I want is a ton of people watching my expressions, posting online about how cold I’m being with him.
I spring to life, clapping my hands together. I laugh with the kind of childlike glee I know people think is cute, but of which I feel so little right now. ‘Welcome to my tiny room,’ I say, gesturing around at my half of our joined space.
He does the same, and we giggle.
God, he’s a nice man. And I’m glad to see him. I am. Iam.
Our conversation speeds by in a blur of excitement, picking up from where we left off. He tells me about his family because I asked, and I try to listen, but the whole time a few questions ping around my head.
Shouldn’t I be thinking about kissing him?
