I’m grateful when the band starts setting up, eager for the sound of a white boy doing an acoustic folksy cover of Lil Wayne’s ‘Lollipop’ to distract me.
‘Do you know what my favourite sound is?’ Raphael Akin asks.
I smile widely. ‘Is it the dulcet sound of your own baritone?’
This time, the guy on the other side of us snorts. Raphael Akin doesn’t seem to notice.
‘No, I was going to say the banjo. Although I was in an all-male a cappella group at my college. We were called the Knightingales – with a K. They used to call me Lancelot. I was kind of a player.’
I clamp my jaw down on itself to keep my tongue in check, and the guy on the other side catches my eye and mimics a fascinated look. He is an asshole and, unfortunately, very cute. He’s sat back in his chair in a thin and loose wide-necked white T-shirt, jeans and a simple, fine gold chain that stands at stark contrast to the chino slacks and button-down shirt with a tiny embroidered man on a horse that my companion wears. The more I look, the more I think that it is a very good white T-shirt. It really takes exquisite taste for someone to choose the perfect white T-shirt to make them look good; it is truly a barometer of style. Though the shirt is loose, it is clear that it hangs on a well-built torso . . . and here I am checking out another guy while on a date. My eyes snap up to see his are already fastened to me, full of something that elicits a tweak of warmth to dive into the pit of my belly. Was he just checking me out?
The sweet heat that rushes through me is quickly dissipated when a girl sits down next to him, all shiny hair, statement heels and a cloud of heavily scented floral perfume. Our gaze splits as he turns to her and, in greeting, she plants a long, complicated kiss on him that involves so much tongue movement that it leaves the confines of their mouths. The slimy, writhing tangle of pink looks like a living, breathing entity. Her hand trails down his chest and stops just above his belt. ‘So sorry, babe,’ she husks, ‘the shoot ran late!’
I smile. The guy’s date sits down and kicks her bare, shiny legs up as she crosses them. She is wearing an anklet. This guy’s date is wearing an anklet. It would then follow that I am not his type and he isn’t my type. I really cannot fantasise about a guy who hooks up with a girl who wears anklets with what seems to be butterfly charms on them; my imagination simply does not have the ambit for it. I sit back in my seat, somewhat comforted by this knowledge, while Raphael talks about the multi-media crime novel he’s working on: ‘What if, while you’re reading on an electronic device, instead of describing the car chase, there’s a clip of a car-chase? I’d like to call the idea Novies. It’s a novel and a movie in one.’
I wonder if I’m getting wine breath. I contemplate asking someone on our row if they have a stick of gum or cyanide.
The night takes an interesting turn when the MC announces that the next performer will be none other than the date of Hot T-shirt Guy. The urbane ease I saw in his face slips away with a swiftness.
‘Wait— what?’ Hot T-Shirt Guy asks quietly, with a stiff smile.
His date’s perfectly puffed lips spread into a grin. ‘Yeah! I wanted to surprise you!’ She bops his nose with her finger, and proceeds to ascend the dingy stage, her heels and bodycon making her look like a diva doing community theatre as punishment. She takes the mic and flicks her hair and I flick a gaze to Hot T-Shirt Guy to see that his face is now comically frozen in a grim smile that barely conceals his utter terror. She clears her throat and taps the mic. It squeals in apprehension.
‘Hey, guys!’ She says it in the same exact tenor one might use to begin a YouTube beauty tutorial. She’s fascinating. I like her. ‘So, I’m Lissa. You can follow me on Lissa Underscore Loves on IG, by the way! Anyway, I’m going to be doing a Taylor Swift cover. Do you know any of her songs?’ She turns to the bemused ankh wearing neo-soul specialising band, who stare at her as if she has spontaneously sprouted a second head. She frowns but is unperturbed.
‘Really? Weird. This song’s a classic. Anyway,’ she waves her hand, ‘it’s fine. I’ll just do it a cappella and you guys can catch up. Also, I’m giving it a fun twist, I have a little spoken word I prepared to go right in the middle!’
It is then I know that I am in love.
If it were possible for Hot T-Shirt Guy to go pale, I have no doubt that he would straight up look like someone who belonged in a Stephenie Meyer novel. As it is, his jaw is tight, and his eyes look arrested in a state of shock and horror. Well, this is wonderful.