everything falls apart 56

We sat and stared awkwardly at one another. I felt like I’d been set up on a blind date. Here was a girl being paid to find me interesting, being paid to laugh at my jokes and hang on my every word, and still I found myself stuck for idle chatter. She sighed and slapped her thighs with both hands, as if she’d just decided on a course of action.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’re going to do to me?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The usual, I suppose.”

“No. Tell me details. Tell me slowly, little by little. Talk dirty to me.”

I had a general idea about what I would do, of course. But when I thought about describing it, it all felt pretty silly. Talking dirty requires a certain swagger and self-confidence. You have to be convinced you’re about to rock this person’s world. I wasn’t convinced.

“I’m not very good at dirty talk.”

“OK then. What do you normally talk about when you’re out with a girl?”

God… who can remember that far back? Those days, my dating years, felt like a lifetime ago. The only girl in recent memory has been my wife. And what do we talk about? The phrase “Shut the fuck up and leave me alone” springs to mind. We yell. Or we give each other the silent treatment. “Gave,” rather. Past tense.

“Who’s that?” I pointed at a photo of a small flaxen-haired moppet on her wall. I thought maybe it was Precious as a child.

“My daughter.”