actor

It was the fag end of the evening. The gig had finished and the pub was desperately trying to close around us. En masse, and after much clucking about, we all head off to the West End for a late night tipple.

He was somebody I vaguely knew through the group of friends I was with. We chatted for a bit at the crowded bar as we both vied for the barman’s attention. Small talk about common interests and friends: nothing too big, too deep or too intimate. It passed the time as the drinks were poured.

Later, on leaving the club, I notice he is leaving too. We walk the short way along Oxford Street together. More polite talk ensues as we step around the early morning drunks and beeping street cleaners. But, as I turn to say goodbye, he grabs my arm, confused.

“So, are we going to go back to yours now?”

The plain assumption takes a second to register. I look at him blankly for a moment as I mentally re-scan the evening's events to see how we ended up here. This is not a man I find attractive in any way. Aren’t actors supposed to be able to read people? Doesn’t that go with the job description?

“I’m sorry, X but I’m not really interested in a romance right now.” I panic and therefore lie.

“That’s okay," he says completely unfazed, "we can just have sex.”

Smooth. I pass on his kind offer.