She takes the seat next to me and I sense something more. She’s spontaneous, charming, beautiful. And her delicious accent — oh, dear, it’s gonna be tough.
She wants to socialize. With me.
I do, too, but I’m conscious. Knowing myself well enough to see few steps ahead. And I do not want to risk that road.
So I keep my cool.
— Shall we have a glass of wine?, — the angelic voice asks.
— Not tonight, babe, I’m staying sober.
She is not, though. It’s wine. Then cocktails. Then shots. Then more cocktails and more shots. Tell me she’s English without telling me she’s English, right?
By midnight, there’s a few emerging contestants circling her, hoping to get lucky.
It won’t happen; I’m pretty sure, not on my watch, unless she’d want to. And she does not, pulling me aside, complaining about some guy grabbing her arse and another being too insistent. Well. Welcome to Eastern Europe, honey. Stay calm. You’re safe.
The venue closes and the mob is about to go clubbing. Jen’s tipsy to say the least and vultures are flapping louder, ready to engage. She’s scans the crowd and finds my eyes watching from the distance. I smile gently and walk in; this is my moment.
— We’re going home, babe?
— Yes, please.
— Hold my hand.
She grabs my hand and we slice through the pack starring in ave like two sweethearts in love. Oh, she’s so naturally radiant. And wasted.
— You’re my sugar daddy, — she whispers.
— Sure I am.
Back at the hotel, I score a kiss before the elevator doors close. More than I expected. More than I asked for.
I sleep well.
We skip the event the next day, hanging about together — beach, walks, coffee, pier, long chats and lunch. And eventually a taxi and a quiet sofa in the lounge at the airport.
— I’ll have wine with you now, it’s safe.
— Here, it certainly is.
One more kiss and she’s back to her life, as I’m off to mine.
It hits me later — this might have been my Lost in Translation moment. Fleeting yet unforgettable.
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