If this were a Netflix series, you'd see a video montage of seven blissful mornings in a row right now. I'd wake up, reach for my phone, see that he'd already text me first and grin like a Cheshire cat. Then, we'd have the Weetabix-breakfast conversation as I made tea, followed by his preference of the outfits that I'd photographed and sent to him. Perfume of the day came next. Makeup after that. More often than not, he'd choose a red lip shade, but there had been a couple of mornings he'd surprised me and gone for a refreshing pink pop, or a coral shade I hadn't worn since I bought it three months prior.
He'd chosen red lips on day fourteen. But not just any red: my favourite Yves Saint Laurent red lipstick. It was my go-to shade for date nights and everything sexy; the kind of red lipstick that makes you feel a thousand times sexier the second you start applying it.
anon~girl: You have a thing for red lipstick, don't you?
unknown*user: I do love it, yes.
anon~girl: Why do you love it?
My message was delivered and read immediately, but it took a few minutes for the typing dots to indicate that he was responding. I wondered if the question had taken him by surprise in the same way that so many of his questions had done to me. He had a habit of asking really interesting ones that you actually had to think about in order to reply — lots of questions about the way things made me feel, for example. No one else had ever asked me the stuff that he'd asked me. Not a single soul.
unknown*user: I think it's just very classically sexy.
anon~girl: You got that James Dean daydream look in your eye. And I got that red lip, classic thing that you like.
unknown*user: What is that? A line from a film?
anon~girl: No, it's a lyric from a Taylor Swift song.
unknown*user: We're allowed to talk about music that we like, right? That's not too much information, surely?
anon~girl: I think music truth is okay. Movies, too. And books. The important stuff.
And that stuff was important to me. I listened to music all the time, from the moment I got up in the morning until I closed my eyes at the end of the day — all sorts of music, from heavy metal to chart music and every other type in-between. The genre wasn't important as long as it had a decent beat, or I could sing along to it. Not that I sang well, of course; I'm what you might call completely tone-deaf. But in my head, Beyonce's voice would come belting out of my lungs every time I bopped along to my newest favourite tune.
And I would devour books like they were going out of fashion, picking a new one up before I'd even put the old one down. I was on a first-name basis with all of the people who worked in my local library, just a few minutes down the street from my front door, and there was always a stash of books on my bedside table patiently waiting for me to pick them up. Just as with my music taste, my reading preferences were wide and varied, my bookshelves stacked with biographies and romance novels standing right alongside nature hardbacks and Stephen King horrors.
I might not have known exactly what I wanted from a significant other in my life, but I did at least know that they needed to be someone who could understand those things about me — the music, book, film-things about me.
I'd already dated the man who hated music like some sort of monster, constantly demanding that I turn the radio down/switch the music channels over/turn the radio off in the car.
And I'd dated the girl who couldn't stand it when I had the lamp on as we laid in bed at night, my pre-sleep reading ritual disturbing her oh-so-precious beauty slumber.
I'd even dated the man who couldn't sit still for long enough to watch an entire movie from start to finish. It took just five dates and three movies for me to realise that I wouldn't ever be happy in a relationship with someone who consistently talked through the entire second half of an epic blockbuster. But that's what the bad dates and failed relationships are for, right? For figuring out what you don't want in a potential partner? And maybe a little of what you do?
unknown*user: Yes, the very important stuff. I'm quite an avid reader, how about you?
And just like that, there he was, ticking all of my boxes again.
anon~girl: Oh, I love reading. Every night, before bed, I gotta read some of my book.
unknown*user: I'm the same. Well, unless something else comes up ... 😜
anon~girl: Hahaha, mmhmm. Of course. What are your views on music, then?
unknown*user: I like most music, no real preferences. I like having something playing in the background. Too much silence is deafening, I think.
More boxes, more ticks. Were we going to have a hattrick ... ?
anon~girl: Agreed. Movies?
unknown*user: Who doesn't like movies?
anon~girl: You'd be surprised! Some people TALK through movies, can you believe that?
unknown*user: Oh, I definitely can. I dated a girl like that once, she drove me mad. It was during a Bond film that I realised she was never going to be the one for me.
Yes, it appeared that we were going to have a hattrick.
This man was perfect. He was actually fucking perfect. He read in bed, liked background music, and could sit and watch a whole film without feeling the need to ask stupid questions throughout it. I was very quickly started to understand why people went on reality TV shows to marry someone they'd never met. If this man - "James" - had asked me to marry him on a reality TV show without meeting him first, I wouldn't even have let him get the whole question out of his mouth before yelling yes. I might even have been the one doing the asking.
anon~girl: What kind of woman would be the right one for you?
It was a daring question, but one I felt emboldened to ask. Even though I knew the answer would probably mess my head up even more, I wanted to know if I stood up to his expectations. I wanted to know if I could be the partner of his dreams.
I just wanted to know, in the name of science ... or something.
unknown*user: That's quite a question. Hmmm. I'd like her to be interesting. Well-read, preferably, so we can talk about all of the books we hated. I'd want her to enjoy travelling because I like to travel, and more than anything, I'd want her to be kind. Not just to me, to everyone, you know? I think kindness is beautiful.
I must have read his response a hundred times, sat on my couch, knowing that I was running late for work but not caring about it in the slightest. He had every shred of my attention. It wasn't just a sexual thing, although I couldn't deny just how much I wanted my mind's vision of him. I was almost obsessed by the way his mind worked, and by how many things we seemed to have in common. Little things. Silly things. Things that don't really seem that important at the beginning of a dalliance with someone brand new, but always turn out to be whopping deal-breakers when they're not a match, a few more months down the line.
unknown*user: How about you? What does your perfect man look like?
anon~girl: Gerard Butler.
unknown*user: Hahaha, that's very specific. What if Gerard Butler is a dick, though?
anon~girl: He'll still look nice.
unknown*user: You're joking with me, right?
anon~girl: Yes, of course I'm joking with you. He's nice to look at, sure, but can he make me laugh? That's what I'm really looking for. I think that's probably what most people are looking for: someone who can make them laugh even on the very worst of days.
unknown*user: I've got some cracking dad jokes that'll have that covered.
I'd never once thought of him as a married man with children, but the mere mention of the word 'dad' in his message sideswiped me completely. Was he a dad? Was he married? Was I flirting with a married man?
*insert horrified gasp here*
Maybe he was a single dad.
Or maybe he was married with children.
Maybe he wasn't a dad at all and I was thinking too much of his use of the term 'dad jokes'.
Or maybe he was married with children.
Maybe he was widowed.
Or maybe he was married with children.
I'd come to terms with the fact that he might have had a girlfriend or people he was dating, because we weren't *technically* doing anything that crossed the lines. It wasn't like we were sleeping together, or kissing, or even having digital sex. There had been a little bit of flirting; that was it. We didn't even know what the other person looked like. We could've passed each other in the street and not realised it.
But married with children? That was something else entirely. For some reason, one I couldn't explain, it felt as though we were doing something wrong if he had a ring on his finger and kids in tow. It made me feel guilty to imagine a wife. And, having been the "other woman" on one occasion already, and not coming out of it too well, it wasn't a scenario I wanted to be a part of.
I remembered the conversation we'd had yesterday when he told me he had a truth to tell me and I told him to quit playing around and tell me his truth. I'd said: "Just tell me your truth, quit playing around. Are you married? Spanish? An undercover investigator about to bust a case wide open?"
And he'd replied: "I can't stop thinking about you. I have sex on my mind, too. I think I do have some Spanish in my family somewhere, though."
He'd avoided the married part of my question. And the undercover investigator part, too, but apart from smoking the odd joint every now and then, I wasn't exactly known for my criminal activity. I was fairly certain he wasn't undercover-investigating me.
But I couldn't ask him about being married — could I? That was part of the no-family, no-relationship rule we'd agreed upon during the setting of our boundaries, wasn't it? Would he even answer the question honestly anyway? I'd have no way of verifying it, if he even gave me an answer, and then where would I be? Still unsure. And possibly without him.
Was it worse to be unsure and guilty, or unsure and ignorant?
For the first time in a week, I didn't text him all day. I shoved my phone right down into the very bottom of my bag, busied myself in as many work tasks as I could, and tried my very hardest to push the thought of him from my mind.
It didn't work.
"Yo, girl, where the fuck are you today??" Sarah asked me, obviously annoyed, once I'd finally made my way into work. She was actually tapping her foot as she said it, clearly wanting me to know just how much I'd pissed her off.
"Sorry. I think you might be right about him being married, you know; although we do still talk all the time," I blurted out. "A significant other would definitely notice something, if he had one. But he avoided the marriage part of a conversation we had the other day, and now I can't get it out of my head."
I hadn't meant to spill the beans to my boss, but the words just erupted from me. As much as I didn't really want her opinions on the new direction I'd taken with my dating life, there was no way I could keep it to myself any longer.
"I'm assuming you don't want an 'I told you so' out of me?" she replied, unhelpfully.
"Can't you just not be a bitch and be my friend for right now. I like this guy, Sarah. I support you with all of your guys." I groaned.
"That's total crap. You hate most of them."
"But do I tell you not to date them? No, I don't. Not even the married ones, remember?" I narrowed my eyes as I said it, almost daring her to argue back.
"Look, why don't you just ask the guy? If he says no, you're good. If he's lying to you, that's his problem — and his wife's. And if he's honest and says yes, which I very much doubt, you'll know to kick him to the kerb."
Sarah's advice made sense, but outright asking him about his marital status was not something I relished the thought of. I missed him when we didn't talk for one night; how badly would I miss him if I had to give him up entirely? And I would definitely have to give him up. I was a lot of things, but a home-wrecker sure wasn't one of them.
"You're right. I should just ask him. I just really don't want to." I whined.
"Tell me more about really liking him. How much?"
"Like ... a lot."
"Fantasising about him as you jerk off?"
"Sarah!" I gasped, though I should've been used to her upfront ways by this point.
"That's a yes. Here's the way I look at it: you've got nothing to lose, right? You never had him. But you might get him, if he's single. Now, pass me those contracts and actually do some work today. You can fantasise about lover boy later."
For once, Sarah had actually been helpful to me. Now all I needed to do was pluck up the courage and just ask him the damn question.
James, even though that's not your real name – are you married?
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