WHEN MY FRIEND MOYA AND I got out of the taxi in my home city of Leeds, there was a period pad on the pavement, which set the tone for the night out we ended up having. I wanted to get with someone, and I knew it would happen because I tend to have a lot more success in Leeds than I do in London - up there, guys like girls in fake eyelashes who ignore the rule: "If you have your legs out you can't show your cleavage." I thought I'd found him at the first bar, when this guy introduced himself to me. He had curtains and a cheeky smile, was big and broad. Nice, I thought, here we go.
He got me a tequila and told me about his tree surgeon business, spun me around under his arm. I liked the way the music meant he had to lean right into my ear for me to hear him talk. It was all going well, except for one thing. It was impossible to ignore the dirty looks his friends were giving me, their eyes running up and down my body. It was so bad that Moya actually went over and asked them whether he had a girlfriend. We couldn't be bothered with any confrontation so we just moved to the other side of the dancefloor.
In the next bar, I thought I'd met The One again, until he got me a drink. He said he was skint, so I assumed he'd get me a beer or something, but after queueing for ages together he handed me a glass of tap water. It should have been funny, but it seemed as if he was trying to catch me out. The last guy was the worst; he seemed normal until, out of nowhere, he asked whether I "spit or swallow".
At the end of the night there was no man, there was Moya and me sitting on the pavement with garlic sauce dripping down our wrists from the overfilled kebabs we'd bought.
We waited there, under the buttery glow of a street light, as Uber after Uber cancelled on us, debating what superpower we'd have. And then we got in the taxi home, heads against the windows, watching the lights of the city drain out into the near black of the country roads.
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