#3 boys. Part One

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Friday.

Two dates with #3 boys.
Yes, you heard right. I've been D'ed.

Date #1. He has blue eyes, blond hair and dimples. Massive dimples. We sit on the snug lounge in a little cafe. I am wearing black sheen stockings with a mini skirt. My forest green top is hidden beneath a beige scarf, which is scattered with swallows in flight. My navy sneakers have a thick brown tab at the heel and my grey coat has floral lining. I feel comme une femme.
There's an old man across from our table. His collared shirt is tucked in to his trousers, and his trousers are pulled up to his armpits. His shoulders are slouched  forward and his elbows are leaning on the table, his face is buried in a book. It must be engrossing because there's a half eaten croissant beside him that has apparently been cold for some time, because when he asks the girl wearing the black apron to reheat it, she rolls her eyes to the back of her head and lets out a stiffened sigh. The various empty teapots would make you think a companion has been and gone, but there's only one mug. And that mug belongs to the reader. He looks up only when his warmed croissant gets placed in front of him. The room gets scowled over and then his eyes stop at us. They soften. A strange twitch starts to move the corner of his mouth. His smile fades as quickly as it came and before my eyes blink, his face is buried in the book again.

Our coffees arrive. But being our first date in a cafe, we're shy, so we don't think to check the temperature before taking the first sip. My soy mocha felt hot on the outside, boy oh boy! I tilted the cup up to my mouth and took a gulp... it felt like a thousand chili peppers where doing a war dance on my tongue.
When in the privacy of your home and you hurt yourself, you scream. It's a natural reflex. Some like to say rude words, some  yell and others, like myself do a combination of both.
Well, when you're in a tiny cafe, sitting next to your date, you can't yell, scream or punch. So I just sit there and pretend it didn't happen.

The conversation isn't much. We talk about the Muppets. The Swedish chef and the 'Manamanah'song. That's something that brought us together, actually, the Manamanah song. We call it 'our banana song' because of a morning, we sit on our bean bags with a banana each and jive to the melodious beats of  "manamanah....dododoododoo...manamanah...dodododo...".

The date is going fine, until his fingers slip on his baby chino and we're both covered in milk. He starts to cry, but then sees that I am laughing. So he joins in.
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Thirty minutes later, walking out of Rootz Cafe, Choorleywood, there's still a half eaten croissant at the old man's table.