His dark hair is evenly speckled with grey giving him that sexy salt and pepper look.
He’s ageing very well. But will he continue to do so? I squint at him, trying to work out how he’ll look ten, twenty years down the line.
Will he still be pumping enough iron to maintain those Popeye arms? Will he lose his hair? I lean forward and run my fingers through it “Gosh, you’re not going to lose your hair any time soon are you? It’s so thick”
Oh. I meant to say that in my head. And running my hands through his hair is hardly appropriate ten minutes into a first date. But he isn’t a man who scares easily. He playfully asks me if I’d like to check his teeth too then opens his mouth wide.
I can’t help but laugh. And that reminds me that first dates are supposed to be fun.
l decide to loosen up and simply enjoy his company. And stop (not so) silently going through my check list of ‘qualities-I-require-in-a-man-in-order-for-a-relationship-to-last’.
Then it hits me - I’ve become one of those women I used to scoff at; the ones who viewed every man they met as a potential life partner.
I remember my indignant response to a casual acquaintance (of a certain age) who patronisingly advised me (after my divorce) not to worry and that she was sure I’d find someone soon.
My retort was immediate and sharp “That’s your search! My search is for inner peace and understanding”.
That bloody well told her. Seven years on and the focus for my search seems to have shifted somewhat, along with my bust line. And I don’t think that’s a coincidence.
I’m starting to feel like I’m running out of time. I calculate that I have another five years maximum of looking hot; five years to settle into a loving relationship so they won’t mind so much when it all starts to slide.
On the positive side, I don’t want any more children so at least I don’t have the added pressure of my biological clock ticking away like a time-bomb.
I’ve been mulling all this over and nodding occasionally at Matthew as he speaks but he’s just asked me a direct question. And I have no idea what it was.
I quickly tune back in and realise that Matthew is charming, articulate and incredibly sexy. Yet something tells me he’s less Mr Right and more Mr Right Now.
It’s all going well until the waitress mixes up our dessert order; he reacts by shouting at her and banging his fist down on the table, sending the glasses crashing to the floor.
He must either really want his tiramisu or he has serious anger issues.
Then it suddenly occurs to me why he’s been looking a tad uncomfortable all evening; it’s difficult for him to put his arms down properly because they are so big.
And his head looks disproportionately tiny on top of his over-pumped up frame. A sneaky suspicion enters my mind. Is he on steroids?
He offers to ‘see me home safely’. I politely decline so he insists on walking me to the train station.
I lean in for a peck on the cheek, he goes for a full on kiss. He pushes himself against me. I discreetly run my hand over his trousers, conducting a quick ‘feel test’.
Yep. He’s definitely on steroids....