Dinner is Swerved

I was looking for my name on the rota when she breezed up beside me
and asked me round to hers for dinner. Weeks of fantasising and she
just walks up and asks me.

I said: "yeah." She smiled and walked away.

"You're opening," she said as she went.
I was indeed on envelope-opening duty. The first envelope through the
opening-machine was thrown out the other end and spilled its contents
all over the table: a wad of fifty pound notes.

Churstey is widely regarded as the most attractive girl in the office.
Her eyes are a very pale shade of blue and they literally shine when
the sun reflects in them; her facial features are strong, yet subtle,
and she carries herself in a similar manner; she is gorgeous and she
seems oblivious to the effect she has on men - on me - which makes her
even more appealing. I had always had a thing for her and had always
been surprised that neither she nor anyone else realised it.

For weeks I tried to convince myself that it was a purely physical
attraction, but I knew it was more than that and eventually I was going
to have to do something about it. But she took that problem out of my
hands and I couldn't believe it was happening. It was happening.

"Is there anything you don't eat?" she asked me later that day;
whatever she made would have been fine with me, even toast. As far as I
was concerned, the meal was an excuse.

"No. I'm easy," I said.

"Good," she replied and slipped me her address and phone number; "I'm
going to give you something special tonight."

!!!

"I was thinking of a bottle of wine," I said, "red or white?"

"Both," she replied; "let's make a night of it," and she winked at me;
it was like lightening coursing through my veins, it made my hairs
stand on end.

I returned to the queue that had formed at the opening machine. A line
of people were waiting for their stacks of envelopes to be opened like
pensioners in a post office. They all looked miserable apart from my
mate, Gary, who was at the front of the queue and asked me: "Did she
just say what I think she said?"

I saw her one last time before leaving the office. I started to suspect
that it was just a wind-up. Out of all the men she could have, why
would she choose me? I wasn't hideous, but Pete was the best-looking of
all of us, Joe was the funniest and Simon was the tallest man I had
ever seen, most of the ladies held their breath when he walked into the
room and laid his enormous hands on their desks. By 5:30 I was
depressed and I prepared myself for a colossal let down.
Then I saw her pulling on her jacket and grabbing her handbag.

"See ya, honey!" she called. "See you at 7:30. Don't be late."

At 7:15 I entered Sainsbury's and grabbed a trolley, because it had a
flower holder in the corner. I picked up a large bunch of pink flowers,
the most attractive on display, and then cruised to the other end of
the supermarket where they shelved the alcoholic drinks. There was a
crowd in the wine section gazing at the regiments of bland bottles and
trying to gather their thoughts:

What is it I was doing again?

I joined them. It was a kind of mass-hypnosis, none of us knew what the
hell we were looking for, we were just hoping it wasn't going to taste
like urine. At least I had more chance than them: I was choosing two
bottles, which meant more chance of getting one that was
acceptable.

I picked up a bottle of vin blanc or rather vin bland and a bottle of
red with absolutely no English on the label, because I was confident
that if it didn't poison us Churstey would be impressed.

By the time I got through the till it was 7:23, which gave me seven
minutes to complete a 15 minute journey. Not to worry I thought, I
don't want to appear too eager. Five or ten minutes won't shatter her
ego. It might reset the balance a little.

I was looking good.

I smelled good.

I felt good.

It was 7:40 when I pressed the doorbell, two bottles of wine held
precariously in one hand, having discarded the unsightly, plastic
carrier bag, and a bouquet of sweet-smelling flowers in the
other.

I waited an eternity for her to come to the door, but eventually it
opened. She was wearing a long, brown, nondescript dress and a tatty,
white cardigan. Her hair hung lankly around her face like lazy teens
just going with the flow.

"I hope I ..."

She walked into the house, letting the door swing open and bash into
the wall.
I followed her inside, shutting the door behind me with my foot. It was
dark inside and dinner was burnt.

I guessed she had gone into the first room, which turned out to be a
dining area. The table was set up nicely, with knives and forks and
napkins. There were two large, decorative wine glasses - her glass was
full and a wine bottle sat nearby, half empty. Churstey stood in the
adjoining kitchen, staring off into the corner while my heart started
to beat really fast.

"Oh ... I brought wine," I said, confused.

"Hmm."

I put the bottles on the table. "And I bought you some flowers."

She looked at them. Then looked away, unimpressed. I felt them dying in
my hand and so I laid them to rest next to the collection of wine
bottles.

She nodded towards my seat at the table and I took off my coat and sat
down. "If you want we can ..."

"You're late," she said, still not looking at me.

"... Sorry."

"That's it?"

"I stopped to buy you flowers. I thought you might like them."

"So it was an after-thought?"

"No."

She looked at me sourly. "Well, dinner's ruined anyway."

"It doesn't matter ..." I said in an attempt to console her.

She sighed. "If it doesn't matter, why are you here?"

Before I could answer, she told me to forget about it and turned her
attention to the oven. She opened the hatch and let it drop with a
thud. Then she pulled something out of the depths and threw it down on
the work surface. She grabbed up a knife and fork and began to excavate
whatever was edible.

I was very worried by this point. It was a horrible silence. I was
afraid to breath.

Eventually she pulled two plates from the draining board and started
serving up.

"Do you want some help?" I asked.

"No."

Fine.

"You just sit there and let me do everything."

There was more than a pinch of sarcasm in there, but I didn't want to
get in her way while she had a knife in her hand so I sat where I was,
squirming.

She came over with one plate, dropped it in front of me and gauged my
reaction.

It was terrible. It was some kind of beefy, meaty, lamby concoction.
The sauce it swam in was thin and translucent. There were 'vegetables'
too, mushy-broccoli and odd little carrots lurking at the side of the
plate. The whole thing looked as though it had been scraped into the
bin and fished out again.

I managed to smile and say "thanks." Whether or not she was satisfied I
don't know, but she went back to the kitchen, dumped some things in the
sink and then sat down opposite me without a word, her eyes on the
flowers.

"Not eating?" I ventured.

"No. Not hungry." She glared at me.

I pushed a chunk of meat across my plate with my fork; it was so tough
the prongs would not enter it. I used it like a shovel instead and with
a silent wish I dumped the lukewarm, congealing lump into my
mouth.

...

"What meat is this?" I asked.

"If you don't want it, don't eat it," she snapped.

"It's (horrible) lovely."

"Yeah, right."

"So ..."

"So what?"

"... Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine! Couldn't be better, thanks!" and she smiled a
terrible, cold smile.

I couldn't bare any more and so I put down my knife and fork and
said:
"Look, I think it's best if I go," and I started to get up.

"Oh, that's right," she laughed, throwing her head back, "you've had
your dinner, now you're just going to leave, well tell you what: you
can go, I'm not stopping you."

"Don't be like that; I think ..."

"No. Go on. Get out! Go to your whore!"

I sat down. "I'll finish my dinner."

She muttered under her breath. "It'll be the first thing you ever do
finish around here."

I ate the dinner in silence and she watched me put away every forkful
of mush and every rock of meat.

"Thank you," I forced myself to say when it was over.

"Aren't you going to open the wine now and drink yourself
stupid?"

"Churstey. Is all this because I was late?"

"All this?" she mimicked. "All what?"

"Is this ... a joke?" I even started to laugh as this seemed to make
sense, like the last piece of a puzzle falling into place.

"Do you see me laughing?" she asked with venom. Then she snatched up my
plate and dumped it in the sink. It broke.

She burst into tears then and ran up the stairs and I just sat there in
a stunned silence.

I didn't know whether to go and see if she was alright, slip out the
door quietly, or call the police. Or all three.

It was very quiet upstairs and I was worried. Maybe she was having a
nervous breakdown. Maybe she was up there now taking an overdose.

Or maybe it WAS a joke. The dress and the dishevelled face and the
bitchiness.

The door opened then. I hadn't heard her come back down the stairs, but
she was holding a bundled-up blanket in her arms.

"And if you think you're sleeping in my bed tonight you've got another
thing coming!" and she hurled the blanket at me; "You can sleep on the
sofa." And then she left the room.

I tried to shut the front door as quietly as I could.

I didn't sleep much that night. I was worried about her. I wondered if
I should have called someone, or should have stayed to watch over her.
Yeah, and be stabbed in my sleep.

I must admit that my main worry was what I was going to say to her at
work tomorrow. I was dreading it.

I was early to work the next day. I wanted to make sure I saw her
before she saw me. I had my eye on the door all morning, but she didn't
show. I thought that perhaps she had hurt herself, accidentally or
deliberately. Anything was possible.

And then there she was, poised by the photocopier. I don't know how I
had missed her. My hands were shaking a little as I went up to her. She
turned and faced me with a huge smile, her lips painted full and red
and her eye-shadow accentuating her bright blue eyes, which skittered
over me greedily.

"Hiya!" she said. "I was looking for you."

"Oh yeah?"

"Thank you for your message last night. It was very thoughtful
..."

I didn't recall phoning her.

"... I'd love to go out again."

"Eh?"

"Eight o'clock," she said and gathered up her photocopies.

She smiled and winked at me as she walked away;

"Don't be late."

THE END