‘No, I probably won’t go to the gym while I’m here, and I’m okay with that.’
His eyes widen. ‘Oh, wow. Well, then, yes, definitely stick with the salad.’
I want toscream.
I squeeze my lips tight and look to the table to stop myself from completely blowing my top, but all I see is my salad. My small, measly saladwithout the quinoa, because, apparently, I’m too big for even a grain.
I replay his words and his tone over again in my head and feel a red-hot burning rage rise within me. I am appalled and hungry, and, if I give in to my instincts, two seconds away from flipping the table. But I cannot. Not in public. The lovely people around us enjoying their regular-sized meals don’t deserve such a scene. So I take a deep breath, steady myself and look back up at Hendrik as he ploughs along with his steak none the wiser.
‘I think Iwillget that tart,’ I say calmly.
‘No, you won’t. Not while you’re on a date with me,’ he says firmly.
‘Pardon?’ I ask.
I surely can’t have heard that right. Not in the twenty-first century.
‘Just eat your salad.’ He tuts, hacking at his meat. ‘Trust me, I’m doing this for your own good.’
I skewer some stray lettuce with my fork and shove it in my mouth purely to stop myself from replying. It’s bitter and a little too crunchy, making the chewing all that more difficult. But I power through. I can’t speak. I will explode at this table. It’s too soon and my head is too hot.
‘I’m gonna pop to the loo,’ I manage to say, once I have swallowed it down.
The words shake with my rage, but he doesn’t even notice. He nods at me, smiling as I scrape back my chair and leave the table.
And then I run.
We were sitting outside so I know he can see me, but I’m past the point of caring. I head down the canal, through the park and back over the bridge, and find the first café I can see that looks like it has Wi-Fi.
Thank God I packed my laptop.
I went to Berlin and all I got was...
. . .a flyer
‘You are a great writer,’ Noah says between bites of his protein bar. ‘Seriously, I feel like I’m sitting at the table with you.’
‘You don’t think it’s too harsh?’ I ask.
‘Oh, if I were him, I’d cry. But by the sounds of it, it was well deserved.’
TheNew Travellerreleased my first four articles this morning while Noah was out working. They thought the bulk release would give people a taste of what the column’s about before we dived in with more sporadic singular uploads. Noah practically ran back to our hostel once he got the email notification, claiming the rest of his workday could wait. He’s been sitting on his bed scrolling through them ever since, while I’ve watched on in terror.
‘When does the next one come out?’ he asks.
I shrug. ‘Whenever I actually write it. Honestly, I’m struggling.’
‘But you’ve been so productive since we got here – three dates in five days! That’s got to be plenty of content!’
‘None of them were that interesting.’ I shrug. ‘The first guy ate with his mouth open, the second called me his “chocolate queen” and the girl from last night was super nice, but that was it. Just nice. We had nothing in common.’
‘Well, you better get writing; I’m on the edge of my seat.’
He pores over the page as he starts to reach the end, eyebrows moving along with the story.
‘I just thank my lucky stars that I didn’t do anything that made you brutally assassinate me in this way,’ he says, grinning.
‘There’s still time,’ I say, deadpanning.
